


The Full Four Seasons

by ravenclawsquill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bickering, Bottom Harry, Christmas, Coffee Shops, Coming Out, Community: hd_erised, Courage, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Flying, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Humor, Impotence, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, POV First Person, Pining, Rimming, Slow Burn, Stripping, Top Draco Malfoy, Topping, Unresolved Sexual Tension, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawsquill/pseuds/ravenclawsquill
Summary: Draco Malfoy just wants a quiet life. He has a successful business, a lovely wife, and a delightfully horrible circle of friends. He’s fine. Or, he was fine until Harry Potter thundered into his life with all the subtlety of a blast-ended skrewt and turned everything on its head. Now he’s beginning to wonder if ‘fine’ is enough, after all.





	1. Winter into Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persephoneapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephoneapple/gifts).



> This has been a rollercoaster of a story to write. It’s been a pleasure, a privilege and (at times) a pain in the backside to spend four months sharing my headspace with a slightly neurotic Draco Malfoy. I’ll miss him enormously.
> 
> Some thank you’s are in order:
> 
> To Persephoneapple, for a wonderful prompt which made me laugh, cry and lose more than few nights’ sleep.  
> To the brilliant, endlessly patient mods, for running such a spectacular fest, and for tolerating my numerous extension requests.  
> To my exceptionally talented betas, [Celestlyn](http://celestlyn.livejournal.com/profile) and [Kittyaugust](http://kittyaugust.livejournal.com/profile), whose input transformed this fic in the best possible way, and without whom it would almost certainly have been consigned to my “deleted documents” folder. You are worth your weight in gold, frankincense and myrrh.  
> And finally, to the fabulous [ShiftyLinguini](http://shiftylinguini.livejournal.com/profile), who drew the exquisite art which features in Chapter 1 (it was originally posted [here](http://shiftylinguini.livejournal.com/25429.html)).

~*~*~*~

_“I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year”  
— Edna St Vincent Millay_

~*~*~*~

## Winter into Spring

The rich aroma of coffee washes over me like a balm as I stand in line at _The Coffee Pot_. The queue is moving frustratingly slowly, perhaps because my usual barista – Matilda, with the blue hair and the nose ring – isn't here. In her place are three scruffy-looking men, two of whom aren't even facing the counter.

I shouldn't be here, really; it's Tuesday, after all. I’m usually very strict on myself. I have one ‘proper’ coffee per week, always on a Friday morning and always accompanied by a cherry biscotti.

But everyone deserves a treat from time to time, and when more so than the first day back at work after the Christmas holidays? Particularly when said holidays were such an unmitigated disaster as mine. Between Christmas Day with the Greengrasses and my mother’s unbearable New Year’s party, it’s a wonder I’ve survived the past two weeks without hexing myself into oblivion.

It’ll be a great relief to get back to the peace and quiet of my shop. Perhaps the greatest perk of operating as a sole trader is the solitude: there’s nobody else to nag you.

“Can I help you?” asks a sickeningly cheerful voice, as its owner rummages around beneath the counter.

“I’ll have a flat white, please.” I quickly appraise the cakes. No, I'll skip the biscotti today.

“Name?”

“Ray.”

“Okay, that’s £2.75. Cash or— _Malfoy?_ ”

It’s him. Potter. Harry bloody Potter, with his green eyes, square jaw and round glasses, wearing a coffee-stained apron and a bewildered expression. The shock of it stops my heart so abruptly that for a split second I wonder if I’ve been hit by an _Avada Kedavra_. Then my pulse resumes, double time, and the world continues to turn.

“Sorry, how much?” I ask, flashing him a warning look. I can practically _see_ the cogs turning in his mind.

I must look sufficiently imperious because he takes my money in silence and gestures for me to move along to the far end of the counter.

I stand with my arms folded, desperately hoping that one of Potter’s colleagues will take over my order. No such luck, though: he shuffles over a minute later and presents me with a small green cup.

“Flat white for _Ray_ ,” he says, emphasising my pseudonym so heavily it comes out as a meaningless sound. His face is a picture of perplexion: eyes wide, lips pursed – it’s the face he used to pull in Potions lessons. If this encounter wasn't so awkward, I’d laugh at him.

I take my drink from his outstretched hand, desperately wishing I’d had the presence of mind to ask for it in a paper cup. I’m almost disappointed to note that it’s perfect; the coffee smells sinfully strong and the foam is smooth as velvet.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I debate the merits of refusing to answer, but it’s a fairly innocuous question, so I settle for barely concealed disdain. “I should think that's obvious, Potter,” I drawl, gesturing to the cup in my hand.

He’s not letting me get away with it that easily. “But why here?”

“Because this is my regular coffee shop. I come here every Friday.”

His brows knit together. “It’s Tuesday.”

“I’m well aware of that!” I snap. Merlin, he’s as infuriating as ever. There are a thousand questions I’d like to ask him – not least, how on earth did he successfully escape the Wizarding world only to end up serving coffee for a living – but the situation is rapidly getting out of hand. I won’t stand for it; I need to take back control. I take a deep breath. “If you don’t mind, Potter, I’d like to enjoy my coffee in peace.”

He nods, disappointed. I quickly turn away, biting back a smile.

Despite the lengthy queue at the till, most of the tables are vacant, including my usual spot by the window. The back of my neck prickles under the weight of Potter’s gaze as I head towards it.

I sink into the softer of the two armchairs – the patchwork one, with the tear on its left arm – and look purposefully through the misty glass, watching the charcoal smudges of passersby hurrying along the pavement, swathed in their thick winter coats.

I have my back to him, but I know that Potter’s still staring at me. I can feel it. I desperately want to turn my head and confirm it, but that would betray my curiosity. Thankfully, I have self-control in spades.

Even so, I don't trust myself to abstain from looking for long, so I gulp my coffee far more quickly than usual – it tastes every bit as good as it looks, decadently bitter with a devilishly long aftertaste – and escape into the frigid January air.

Only when I’m safely outside do I finally permit myself a single glance at the counter through the safe barrier of the window. There he is, chattering away to an old woman as he tops her drink with a veritable mountain of whipped cream.

I turn on my heel and walk briskly back to the familiar haven of my shop. The cold stings my cheeks and numbs the tip of my nose, but it’s not enough to clear my head. Far from my intended treat, the morning’s events have left me feeling very restless indeed. I suppose it serves me right for breaking my coffee routine.

~*~*~*~

Astoria arrives home at half past eight. She promised me this morning that she’d be back by seven at the latest, but of course, we both knew that was foolishly optimistic. As it happens, I’ve timed it perfectly: I’m plating up the lamb cutlets when she bursts into the kitchen, a blur of flagrant orange.

She’s beside me in an instant, slightly breathless from her rush to get home. She stretches up onto the tips of her toes to kiss me, and even then she only manages to peck my chin – no doubt leaving a streak of magenta lipstick behind. What my wife lacks in height, she makes up for in sheer presence. When Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy enters a room, everyone pays attention.

I ruffle her hair, teasing a few blonde curls out of place. She bats my hand away, tutting in mock-exasperation as she steps away to slip out of her work robes and hang them neatly on the hook by the door.

She despises those robes. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s tried to change the colour, but apparently the Department of International Magical Cooperation have _always_ dressed in an eye-watering shade of orange, thereby creating a tradition of such importance that even Astoria and her fellow Senior Officials don’t have a hope of changing it. Perhaps she’ll have better luck when she gets the inevitable promotion to Head of Department.

“How are the Ministries of the World? Cooperating, I assume?” I ask, as I drizzle a spoonful of home-made mint sauce over each plate. To think I used to complain that I couldn’t cook.

She sighs heavily. “I wish. It turns out the Turkish Ministry have taken advantage of the Christmas break and slipped through a total ban on the export of Magic Carpets. Completely ridiculous and unenforceable, of course – we all know they’ve only done it to piss off the Bulgarians. The boss wants me in Ankara for the rest of the week.”

Astoria’s tact and smart negotiation skills mean that she’s the Minister’s first choice for resolving tricky cross-border disputes; she’s forever getting called away to all manner of exotic locations. I’m not sure I remember a week where she didn't end up taking at least one International Portkey.

“So much for a quiet first day back, then.”

I send the plates over to the table with a wandless _Wingardium Leviosa_ , and follow behind them with a glass of white wine in each hand.

“Indeed!” She collapses into her seat with a heavy sigh, gratefully accepting her glass.

Astoria continues to explain the strained nature of Turk-Bulgarian international relations as we tuck into our meal, interjecting her own sentences every so often to compliment my cooking. Her frustration is all an act, of course. She loves her job so much that even after a long day like this one, her passion for it is obvious.

Halfway through dinner, she pauses for breath. “Anyway, enough about my day. How was yours? Fix anything exciting?”

Despite her stratospheric rise through the ranks of the Ministry, Astoria always asks about my day as if our careers are equally important. I’m not sure whether I find it endearing or patronising.

“The usual,” I shrug. “Cleaned up a couple of jinxed jewellery boxes, had to give up on a badly damaged Foe Glass.” I pause to take a bite of my food. “Oh, and I finally managed to sort out that mirror – you know, the one that kept screaming obscenities at its owner.” This particular item has been an endless source of frustration for me; it’s been in and out of my shop no fewer than four times since Halloween.

She nods in recognition. “Oh, yes! What was wrong with it?”

“It turns out the owner has low self-esteem. The silly woman has been moaning at the mirror every day, telling it how horribly ugly she is. Of course it was going to pick up a phrase or two.”

Astoria raises her blue eyes to the ceiling and shakes her head in disbelief. “Oh, honestly!”

“I had to tell her to compliment herself. Me. Counselling her,” I say flatly.

She laughs so hard she almost chokes on a mouthful of mashed potato. I can’t blame her for finding it funny; I’m not exactly a natural when it comes to offering words of comfort. Even so, it’s not _that_ funny.

I give her a minute to calm down, but she’s _still_ at it; a fat tear rolls down her left cheek, leaving a faint trail of mascara in its wake. “Oh god,” she gasps, “what I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall!”

“Mmm, well. I’ll have you know I was perfectly charming,” I mutter with a frown. A change of subject is in order. I take a large gulp of wine, then launch into the topic I’ve been itching to discuss since she got home.

“Anyway, you’ll never guess who I bumped into today,” I say, striving for nonchalance as I make a start on the parsnips. Honey-glazed, I really have outdone myself.

Her eyes light up: she never shies from a challenge. She doesn't stand a chance this time, though. “Hmm … Celestina Warbeck? Gwenog Jones? Wait, don’t tell me! Let me guess … the Weird Sisters?”

I shake my head. “Not even close. And really, the Weird Sisters? What is it, nineteen-ninety-five? No, it was Potter.”

She frowns. “Harry Potter?”

“Obviously.” Honestly, for an incredibly intelligent former Ravenclaw, she can ask the most ridiculous questions.

“Oh, really? Now that _is_ interesting. In the Wizarding District?” she asks.

“No, at that Muggle coffee shop I like.”

“I wonder what he was doing there.”

I set down my knife and fork. “Making my coffee, whilst wearing an apron, no less.” I try to inject a note of disdain into my words, but they come out sounding bemused.

Her frown deepens, pulling her eyebrows into a perfectly straight line. She uses some sort of charm to darken them; apparently clear expressions are crucial when negotiating via translators. Without it, they’d be almost as fair as mine. “Did you get chatting with him?” she asks.

I think back to our brief, frustrating exchange. “Of course not. Potter and I don’t _chat_.”

She purses her bright pink lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Draco. Just because you didn’t get along at Hogwarts, doesn’t mean you can’t be civil.”

Astoria’s never quite understood the rivalry I had with Potter at school – and why should she? She’s three years younger than I am, and wasn’t even particularly aware of me until I returned to Hogwarts, long after my former classmates, to take my NEWTs. It’s for the best; Potter always brought out the very worst in me, and I doubt she’d have been interested in getting to know me if she’d seen the full extent of it.

Talking about my encounter with Potter hasn’t been anywhere near as entertaining as I’d hoped. Perhaps I’ll mention it to Pansy next week. She’d appreciate it. Then again, I’m not sure I can trust her to keep it quiet, and Potter clearly values his privacy. Not that I care, of course.

I wave my hand to dismiss the topic. “Enough about that. Tell me about the Magic Carpets,” I smile.

She takes the bait and dives back into her explanation of the complexities of the Turk-Bulgarian Magical Transport Trade Treaty. I nod along whilst musing that I’ll have to find a new café. It’s a pity; it’s so difficult to find a truly smooth flat white. Nonetheless, I can’t go back there. One awkward encounter with Potter is quite enough. Even if he does make an excellent cup of coffee.

~*~*~*~

My self-restraint holds for precisely a fortnight. Midway through Friday morning, I pull on my gloves, wrap my scarf snugly around my neck and make the familiar ten-minute walk to _The Coffee Pot_.

_I’ll order my coffee to go_ , I reason, as I cross the threshold into Muggle London. It seems excessive to boycott the cafe entirely just because Potter happens to work there – and besides, it would mean that he’s won.

I have no reason to suspect that he’ll even be there. After all, he’s never been there on a Friday before, and I’ve been frequenting the café for months. Even so, I enter with a degree of trepidation and perform a subtle sweep of the room as I approach the counter.

Thankfully, all appears to be in order. Matilda’s standing in her usual spot behind the till, and she greets me with a cheery wink. “Flat white and cherry biscotti, yeah?” she asks. Her accent is pure Essex; a barrage of harsh vowels and dropped t’s. My answering “Yes, please” makes for a razor-sharp contrast.

I keep the small talk to a minimum while I pay – I like Matilda, but even though I’ve been flitting in and out of Muggle territory for years, the fear of breaching the Statute of Secrecy is always present in the back of my mind.

When my coffee is ready, I settle into my usual patchwork armchair and take out my copy of _Nineteen Eighty-Four_. I’ve been getting through a lot of Muggle literature since I started coming here; I can hardly crack open _Gadding with Ghouls_ in a place like this, after all.

I read the same paragraph four times before I’m forced to conclude that the mere memory of Potter’s presence is playing havoc with my concentration. I battle on, but when my eyes skate over the same line for the sixth time, I reluctantly close the book and turn my attention to my drink.

Irritatingly, the coffee isn’t quite as good as the one Potter made. Still, it’s more than passable. At least I have my biscotti today. I dip the very edge into the foam; the bubbles cling pleasingly to a particularly fat morsel of cherry.

A flash of movement catches my attention as I go for a risky second dip. I look up automatically and find myself staring straight into Potter’s unnaturally green eyes. My stomach lurches, my grip loosens, and my precious biscotti falls into the cup with a dismal _plop_.

“Can I help you?” My voice is brisk as the winter chill outside, but he doesn't even flinch. It would seem that his Gryffindor courage is as strong as ever.

He leans over the empty armchair opposite me, curling his nail-bitten fingers over the back of the cushion. He isn’t wearing the apron today – just a red cable-knit jumper and a pair of jeans – and true to form, his hair looks as though he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asks, flashing me a tentative smile.

He’s settled in the chair, legs spread obscenely wide, before I recover enough to even begin telling him that yes, I most certainly _do_ mind.

His eyes flit down to the table between us, taking in the sorry sight of my beverage: barely an inch of the biscuit has escaped a caffeinated burial at sea. He cringes. “That was my fault, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” I fold my arms across my chest and narrow my eyes.

He shrugs sheepishly, then waves like a madman to attract Matilda’s attention. When she looks over, he points at me and performs a horribly exaggerated mime of eating and drinking. Apparently it’s enough to get the message across; she nods and appears a minute later with a fresh flat white for me, a black coffee for Potter, and – thank Merlin – a replacement cherry biscotti.

Potter takes one look at it and shakes his head in disappointment. “Biscotti? Honestly, Malfoy. I should have known you’d go for something pretentious.”

How dare he? To interrupt my Friday morning break is one thing, but to insult my taste in baked goods is quite another. “What would you have chosen?” I scoff. “A chocolate muffin?”

He exhales in amusement; a single sharp puff through his nose, and sinks even lower in his seat. “Probably,” he admits.

I shoot him a look of disgust and make a great show of soaking my biscotti (I opt for a safe, single dip, this time) and taking a bite.

“So,” he grins, resting his head against the back of his armchair. He looks completely at home, as if having coffee with me is a perfectly normal event. “Why ‘Ray’?”

I allow my frown to darken into an icy glare. If he’s looking to garner favour with me, he’s going about it in entirely the wrong way. “My name is a touch distinctive. You and Weasley laughed the first time you heard it, if I recall correctly.” The second sentence slips out unintentionally, sounding horribly childish.

He at least has the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry.” Then, “You don’t look like a ‘Ray’.”

“No?” I eye him warily over the rim of my cup.

He shakes his head firmly. “Definitely not. You’re clearly a Draco.”

I’m not sure if he’s teasing me. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you know. The hair, for one. It stands out a bit.” He runs his hand self-consciously through his own, somehow managing to mess it up even further. “And the suit, too.”

“What’s wrong with my suit?” I look down at myself, as if to check it, but I know for a fact that it’s perfect. It was a gift from Astoria; three pieces in dove grey, custom made on Savile Row from the highest quality wool money can buy. I’ve lost count of the number of compliments I’ve received whilst wearing it. Potter, of course, would just have to be the exception.

He holds up his hands placatingly. “Nothing, it’s nice. It’s just a bit _too_ nice for you to blend in here, that’s all.”

I turn in my seat to look at my fellow customers. I suppose he has a point: most of them look as though they’ve just rolled out of bed. Eventually, I turn back to face him and shrug. “Well, it’s hardly my fault your clientele are incapable of dressing themselves properly.”

I drain my cup, grateful that my favoured drink is the smallest on the menu. Potter still has over half a mug of black coffee in front of him.

I clear my throat and rise in a single fluid motion. “As lovely as this has been, what with you interrupting my weekly coffee break to interrogate me about my alias and criticise my taste in clothing, I really must get back to work.”

I pause for a moment to give Potter the opportunity to take in the superb cut of my jacket – not that he’s capable of appreciating it – before pulling on my coat. For a moment he remains slumped in his chair. Then he catches himself and scrambles clumsily to his feet.

“See you next week, then?” he asks, looking hopeful. He’s half a head shorter than me and has to tilt his chin up slightly to meet my eye. It feels unnatural; we were always around the same height at school.

“Perhaps,” I say, as if I’m not bothered either way.

He holds out a hand. I don’t take it, but he grins regardless. He knows as well as I do that I’ll be back.

~*~*~*~

I arrive at ten-thirty the following Friday to find a black coffee, a steaming flat white and a cherry biscotti on my favourite table, accompanied by a handwritten _Reserved_ sign.

Potter’s chatting to Matilda by the till, but he dashes over when he catches sight of me. His apron is missing again, and he’s wearing a garish argyle jumper in a shade of blue which doesn’t suit him at all. It’s so horrible I briefly wonder whether he’s worn it with the sole intention of getting on my nerves.

“Whose are these?” I ask, pointing down at the drinks. “Clearly someone has excellent taste.”

Potter rolls his eyes, but he looks almost embarrassingly pleased to see me. “Shut up and sit down, Malfoy.”

I desperately want to mock his attire, but I bite the words back and do as he says. There’s no sense in allowing my coffee to go cold. He falls into the chair opposite me and picks up his cup, holding it up to his face and inhaling deeply.

I can tell from my very first sip that he made the drinks himself. He seems to have a gift for brewing coffee. I find myself wondering why he was so terrible at Potions – another question to add to the ever-growing list of things I want to know about Harry Potter, but am far too stubborn to ask.

The coffee may be perfect, but the conversation is another matter entirely. It ebbs and flows without warning; one minute we’re talking over each other, the next we’re caught in an uncomfortable silence. At one point, a pause goes on for so long that I genuinely consider getting my book out, but Potter thankfully breaks it with an impassioned speech about his favourite varieties of coffee bean.

We must make for quite a sight: two grown men sat staring warily at one another, plagued by intermittent stony silences. I expect the other patrons are nudging each other, asking “What’s the nature of _that_ relationship?”, though I can’t be sure – I’m too busy watching Potter.

Despite the horribly awkward nature of our little meeting, Potter leaves me at the front door half an hour later with a cheery “See you next week!”

That’s all it takes to establish a routine. From that Friday onwards, my order is always waiting for me, along with Potter, at the table by the window.

Holding a conversation continues to pose a problem and we stick to safe subjects at first. It doesn’t leave us with many options. We mainly discuss the weather (which we both agree is freezing – hardly groundbreaking, given that we’re midway through the coldest winter in almost thirty years) and the Muggle news. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised that the other follows Muggle current affairs.

As the weeks pass, though, we gradually begin to branch out onto rockier ground. He starts to ask me for updates as to what’s going on in the Wizarding news, and I’m happy enough to oblige. We carefully avoid the matter of why he doesn't simply go and find out for himself. He mentions in passing that he sees Granger and the Weasel once a week, but that’s all I manage to get out of him.

One morning in early February, I finally allow my curiosity to get the better of me and query his unusual career choice. I do my best to raise it casually, as if I haven’t considered it at least once a day for the past month.

“So, how did you end up working in a coffee shop?” I ask, picking up my tiny cup and holding it in both hands. It’s horribly cold outside and I foolishly left my gloves at home this morning; my fingers are glowing a deep pink, half-frozen from the walk.

Potter shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t _work_ here, Malfoy. I _own_ it. And I live in the flat upstairs.”

I suppose that explains his presence at the café even when he isn’t wearing that rather fetching apron. It still doesn’t make a great deal of sense, of course; it’s not exactly the glittering career path one would expect a qualified Auror to follow.

“In which case, what possessed you to purchase this … establishment?” I look around in distaste at the huddles of sleepy students and greasy salesmen in cheap nylon suits.

He rolls his eyes at my disdain. “I’d just stepped back from the Wizarding district and needed something to do. Hermione suggested I find something social to help me meet new people, so when I saw an advert for this place in the property section of the local paper, I thought, why not?” He looks affectionately around the room. “And besides, if it’s good enough for the great Lord Malfoy to grace it with his presence, it’s good enough for me.”

I bow my head in defeat, effectively outmanoeuvred. I desperately want to press him for further details as to why he ‘stepped back’, but something about the look on his face tells me not to. Our weekly coffees have become strangely enjoyable, and I’m conscious that a single ill-timed question could bring the arrangement to a swift halt.

Still, I’m curious. Potter’s withdrawal from Wizarding society caused a great deal of gossip at the time; for months I couldn’t so much as pop into Gringotts without hearing his name at least once. It seemed to happen overnight: one day he was the Ministry’s golden boy, the next he simply vanished into thin air. The strangest part of all was the complete lack of media attention. Despite the rabid public interest, I don’t remember seeing a single article about it – not that I’d have read it if I had.

The conversation lulls, but only for a minute or so. Remarkably, he’s as curious about me as I am about him.

“So, what do you do when you’re not enjoying the fantastic atmosphere of my coffee shop?” he asks, picking at his chocolate muffin. The way he’s eating it makes me want to grind my teeth: he picks each chunk of chocolate off the top and lays them on a plate, saving them until last.

I tear my eyes away from his sticky fingers. “I have a shop, over on Polemic Alley. I sell and repair magical artefacts.”

“What kind of artefacts?” he asks, instantly suspicious.

“It’s no Borgin and Burkes, if that's what you mean.” My words come out rather more sharply than I intended, but he doesn’t look put out by them. He’s simply staring at me intently, awaiting further details.

I pause, assessing the best way to explain it to him. Where would I even begin?

I’m fascinated by the interaction between magic and objects: from natural materials like gemstones, which hold inherent magic, to the ways in which man-made objects respond to and retain external spellwork. I wanted to train as an Unspeakable and research it professionally, but my actions during the war put a firm stop to that ambition.

Still, the shop enables me to tinker. Most of the items which pass through my hands are exceptional only in their mundanity: broken clocks, cursed family jewels, household gadgets where the charmwork is beginning to fail – but occasionally something remarkable comes through the door. A wizened old witch brought in a Horcrux once, in the form of an antique teapot. There was nothing _I_ could do with it, of course – I told her to call the Aurors – but it was fascinating, nonetheless.

Astoria’s name may be on the lease, but the shop itself is all mine. It provided me with a sanctuary of sorts during those first few difficult years after Hogwarts. But that’s rather more than Potter needs to know.

“I have an interest in how magic interacts with everyday objects,” I say eventually. “Black’s enables me to pursue it.”

I’ve lost him. “Black’s?”

His persistent failure to keep up is beginning to grate on my nerves. “Well, people are hardly going to pop into Malfoy’s, are they?” I snap. “It’s my mother’s maiden name.”

“I suppose not,” he concedes with a grimace.

A brief silence follows. Potter picks up three chunks of chocolate and eats them in quick succession. “For some reason, I thought you’d end up at the Ministry. Politics, you know,” he shrugs.

“No, they wouldn’t have me,” I mutter, cringing inwardly at the bitterness which colours my words. “Astoria’s the high-flyer.” I tap the gold band on my left hand.

He blinks, as if noticing it for the first time. “You’re married?”

Irritation flares in my chest at his tone of surprise. I nod. “Yes, for a little over eight years, now.”

There’s a moment’s delay as he performs a quick calculation, then his eyebrows shoot up so high they disappear into that messy bird’s nest he passes off as hair. “Wow. You didn’t waste any time. So you were—”

“—twenty-one,” I interrupt, just to shut him up.

He gapes.

I raise an eyebrow at his rudeness, but allow him to continue digging his way into the hole. As expected, he does so with aplomb.

“I suppose you have a brood of pasty blond kids, too?” he grins.

“No.” He’s touched a nerve, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. Time to turn the conversation to him; offence is the best defence, after all. And all right, perhaps I’m just a little bit curious.

“And you?” I ask. I can see that he’s not wearing a wedding ring. “No adoring wife for the Chosen One to come home to?”

He bristles automatically at my words, then detects my sarcasm and laughs. It’s a strange, bitter noise, which sounds all wrong coming from his mouth. “No, definitely not, and there never will be.”

How odd. He strikes me as the domestic sort. I look at him closely, but his expression is unreadable. “That seems a touch cynical, Potter. How do you know you won’t meet the right woman?”

“Because I’m gay,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I almost spit out my coffee.

“How on earth did you manage to keep _that_ a secret?”

He shrugs. “I don't particularly want it to be one. I went to the _Prophet_ a few years ago and offered them a ‘coming out’ interview – _not_ because I like the attention,” he mutters defensively, fixing me with a stony glare. “I thought it might help to raise awareness, show gay Wizarding kids that they're not alone – but the editor turned it down.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” I can't imagine the _Prophet_ turning down a story, especially one so scandalous.

He stares down at his coffee. “They point-blank refused to run any stories about my sexuality. How did they put it … oh, that’s it: they didn't want to ‘break the hearts of a thousand witches’.” The topic seems to have rekindled an old fury. His jaw is clenched tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. A thrill of fear shoots up my spine: he suddenly looks dangerous.

“That’s ridiculous,” I murmur. His startlingly green eyes flicker up to look at me. I keep my face perfectly straight as I continue, “Five or six witches, maybe, but _a thousand_? Obviously you have the whole ‘Saviour’ thing going for you, but even so, you’re not exactly God’s gift, Potter.” I shake my head. “It’s no wonder you're so bloody cocky, being fed stories like that…”

He bursts out laughing. It’s not a polite laugh; it’s a real, warm, contagious chuckle that has the corners of my own mouth twitching. It’s as if his anger from a moment ago has been wiped clean away. I never thought I’d see the day that I made Harry Potter laugh like this.

I look down at my cup and feel a twinge of disappointment when I find it empty. A part of me wants to ask Potter for another one, but I’ve already been away from the shop for too long. I reluctantly heave myself out of the chair and say goodbye. It’s for the best: Mrs Morton will be stopping by before lunch to collect her taxidermy Hippogriff head (now fully restored so its eyes literally follow you around the room), and she won’t take kindly to being kept waiting.

Later that day, during a quiet moment between repairs, it occurs to me that the frank discussion of our respective careers and home lives marks a turning point in our odd acquaintanceship. It was our first ‘proper’ conversation; the first time we’ve managed to touch on such sensitive subjects without the risk of it ending in a duel.

When I tell Astoria that I’ve accidentally become Harry Potter’s coffee confidant, she congratulates me for overcoming an old grudge. She seems to think it’s an excellent development, but I suspect she’s just pleased to see me spending time with a non-Slytherin; she always says my old school friends bring out my nasty side. My meetings with Potter are certainly very different from spending time with anyone else.

~*~*~*~

When the following Friday comes around, I half expect Potter and I to revert back to the familiar routine of stilted sentences and half-serious bickering, but he greets me from his chair with a wide grin and a lazy “Morning, Draco.”

I’m halfway through the motion of sinking into my armchair, but his use of my given name stops me in my tracks for a moment. I hover, half-sitting, half-standing, and raise an eyebrow. “Potter.”

He lets me get settled and take a bite of biscotti before launching eagerly into a new round of questioning. He appears to have taken the view that now the ice has been broken, any topic is fair game.

“Did you always want to run a shop?” he asks.

I try to fight it – there’s no shame in running a small business, after all – but it’s no use; my Malfoy pride kicks in with a vengeance and my upper lip curls of its own accord. “Of course not. I chose my NEWTs with a view to training as an Unspeakable.”

He looks confused. “What made you change your mind?”

He must be joking. Rage ignites like a furnace in my chest, and in that moment, I want to slap him for being so ignorant. If we weren’t in his cosy little coffee shop, surrounded by his adoring staff and scruffy customers, I probably would.

“I didn’t _change my mind_ , Potter,” I grind out through gritted teeth. “The Ministry felt that I lacked the required integrity.”

“Why?” he presses. He’s leaning forward in his seat, looking at me intently through the round lenses of his glasses.

“Because of my activities during and preceding a certain war,” I hiss. “Unless you don’t remember the war? It took place towards the end of your time at school? You played a fairly integral role?”

I take great pleasure in the look of horror which spills across his face he realises his blunder. “Shit. Sorry.”

I’ve not finished, though. I was sitting up straight already – unlike Potter, I’m not prone to slouching – but I draw myself up even more rigidly in my chair, arms folded, glaring at him. “You may not have noticed that I didn’t return to Hogwarts at the same time as everyone else, but I can assure it was a pretty memorable time for me.”

He did notice, of course. He’s well aware that I spent the best part of a year in one of Azkaban’s holding cells, waiting for my case to complete its slow march through the Court system. In fact, a letter from Potter was a key piece of evidence at my trial – not that I was ever permitted to read it.

“A criminal record isn’t exactly attractive to prospective employers, Potter. Or to society in general, for that matter.” My tone is practically poisonous. I’ll regret this little outburst later, but for the time being, it’s a relief to spit the words out. I don’t even want to think about how long I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to say them.

He sits perfectly still for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a Freshwater Plimpy. Then he leans closer still, putting his elbows so heavily on the low table between us that it tips alarmingly and I have to dart forward to catch my cup. The movement brings us uncomfortably close; there’s barely a foot of space between our faces. I want to move away, but I can’t. His green eyes hold me in place as firmly as a _Petrificus Totalus_.

“Why did you put yourself through it, then?” he asks quietly. My confusion must show on my face, because he takes a deep breath and elaborates. “I mean, after Azkaban ... didn’t you ever want to just run away from it?”

What a ridiculous question. I take a steadying breath and a deep sip of my drink, focusing on the rich tobacco notes of the coffee and savouring its silky texture against my tongue.

When I finally speak, my voice is calm. “Where would I have gone?”

He shifts in his seat. Now _he’s_ the one being put on the spot. “I don’t—”

I cut him off smoothly. “Think about it. You may have been a Muggle first and a Wizard second, but magic is all I’ve ever known. I could no sooner live as a Muggle than I could join a herd of Centaurs. Magic is ingrained in me, it’s my identity. I couldn't give it up if I tried.”

I pause and look closely at Potter, trying to assess whether he understands what I mean. He seems to; he’s nodding slowly.

“Running away wasn’t ever an option for me,” I murmur. “Besides, it all got better over time. These days I barely ever get hexed in the street.” The last sentence was intended as a joke, but it isn’t funny, not least because I _do_ still get hexed in the street from time to time.

Potter doesn’t find it funny, either. He’s still nodding, but a hint of pity has crept into his eyes. My stomach twists unpleasantly. I refuse to be pitied by anyone, least of all Harry Potter.

I cast about for a way to turn the focus of the conversation onto him, and realise this is a perfect opportunity to revisit the question I didn’t dare ask last week. “What about you, anyway? Don’t you miss Wizarding society?”

Surprise briefly crosses his face, then his lips tense and relax, pressing into a series of unnatural shapes as he weighs up his answer. “Yeah, of course,” he says eventually. “I miss it all the time.”

“May I ask why you ran away in the first place?”

A wave of anger washes over him at my choice of wording. We’re still leaning into each other, so close that I see every detail as he loses control of his temper. His face draws into a frown; a crease appears between his eyebrows, a red flush pools on his cheeks. His green jumper ripples as he tenses his shoulders.

“I didn't _run away_. I just … needed a break,” he mutters, jutting out his chin. Defiance has always suited him; I think it’s the square jaw that does it.

I lean even closer, watching him intently. “A five year break?”

His face crumples. He looks so pained that for a moment I think I’ve pushed him too far; that he’s going to tell me to fuck off, to get out of his café and not come back. Then he leans back in his armchair with a sigh so heavy he visibly deflates.

“Wherever I went, whatever I did, everyone wanted something from me. I couldn’t even do my job properly. Fieldwork was impossible because I was constantly getting harassed by the press and the public, so Dawlish shoved me in the office. And then there was the whole thing with the _Prophet_ … that was the final straw, really.” He pauses and casts his eyes up to the ceiling. “It felt like they all wanted Harry Potter the figurehead, not Harry Potter the person. So I decided to take a break from it for a year or so. Then one year turned into two, which turned into five … and here we are,” he finishes, slightly breathless.

“You should come back.” The words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to properly consider what I’m saying.

He blinks, surprised. “Why should I?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be stupid. Because you’re Harry Potter. You’re supposed to be the poster-boy for Gryffindor bravery. Hiding away like a recluse for half a decade isn’t exactly consistent with that.”

His temper threatens to flare again at the suggestion that he’s hiding, but his scowl gives way to a reluctant smile when I hold up my hands to show that I’m joking.

“Poster-boy? I’m twenty-nine, Draco. I doubt I’ve been the ‘poster-boy’ for anything in at least a decade. And besides,” he adds with a grimace, “it’s not that simple.”

I shrug. “Of course it is. You just need somebody to manage the PR for you – someone decent, who can deal with both the press and the public.”

“Mmm. I hadn’t thought of that.” He frowns, but he looks as though he’s seriously considering my suggestion. I enjoy the last few sips of my coffee in silence, giving him a chance to think about it.

The notion of returning clearly makes him uncomfortable, but the more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense. I decide to press him further. “Are you really trying to tell me that if you could return to Wizarding society on your own terms, without getting caught up in a media storm, you wouldn’t want to do it?”

I have him cornered, I can see it in his eyes. He’s not going to let me win that easily, though. He purses his lips and sticks out his chin in a laughable display of stubbornness, then pulls up his sleeve to check his watch.

“Don’t you need to be getting back to your shop?” he asks hopefully. “It’s almost half eleven.”

I hate it when he’s right.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” I reluctantly get to my feet and and pull on my coat – no scarf today: the weather’s finally warm enough that I don’t need to wrap myself up like a Christmas present every time I go outside.

Just as he thinks he’s got away with it, I fix him with a pointed look. “That was the poorest effort at evasion I’ve ever seen, by the way.”

He laughs and leads me to the door, but I still haven’t finished.

“If you ever change your mind about coming back, I know of an excellent firm who could help you with the press management aspect.”

He runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. “God, you’re as bad as Ron and Hermione!”

Interesting. “Have you considered that if everyone else thinks it’s a good idea, perhaps it might actually be one?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes and smiles dismissively. “ _Goodbye_ , Draco.”

He all but throws me out the door into the cool spring breeze.

~*~*~*~

“After you,” says Astoria, gesturing towards the fireplace. She’s wearing a new black dress which clings to her hourglass curves in all the right places. She looks beautiful aside from the expression of disgust on her carefully made-up face; if I didn’t know better, I’d think she had a mouthful of Stinksap.

We’ve been putting off dinner with my parents since New Year, and have finally used up all of our excuses. We managed almost two months, though; that has to be a record.

I check my reflection in the mirror before stepping into the bright green flames. I always regret making this particular journey by Floo; the prospect of spending an evening with my parents makes me feel quite nauseous enough without the added disorientation of spinning around one hundred times per minute.

I step out onto the hearth of my parents’ drawing room and quickly move aside. Astoria follows a moment later. One of the House-elves – Mopsy, or perhaps Binky, I can never tell them apart – is waiting by the door. She sinks into a low bow once Astoria’s finished brushing ash from her hair, and leads us through to the dining room.

My parents are waiting inside, drinks in hand. My mother is dressed in a grey silk cocktail dress, my father a smart suit. They always dress up for these dinners, as if Astoria and I are distant acquaintances rather than family members. Astoria finds it ridiculous. I’m sure she’d dearly love to turn up in her nightdress one day, just to see the look on their faces.

Looking at them like this, stood side by side in the muted light of the chandelier, I can’t help but notice how much they’ve aged over the last few years. When I was a child, my parents always seemed so alive. These days it’s as if they’re crumbling before my very eyes, growing ever paler, ever greyer, like a pair of ghosts. They’re not old by any means – they’ve barely reached their mid-fifties – but my father, especially, hasn’t quite been himself since his five-year stint in Azkaban.

As usual, they each greet me with a stiff hug, but neglect to offer Astoria the same courtesy. As usual, she shrugs it off as if it doesn’t matter, though I know it bothers her.

My parents and Astoria don't see eye to eye. I’ve never quite understood it; in theory, they should get along like a house on fire. Her liberal views aside, my wife’s bloodline is impeccably pure, and her family is considerably more respectable than mine, given the fallout after the war.

This particular visit starts surprisingly well. It’s uncomfortable, as usual, but we miraculously make it all the way through dinner without any one of us saying anything overtly offensive. We stick to safe topics: my father and Astoria talk animatedly for over half an hour about the latest changes within the upper echelons of the Ministry. My father’s disappointment at my failure to participate is palpable, prickling across my skin like an unpleasant itch, but it could be far worse.

When my mother asks what we did for Valentine's Day, Astoria and I tell our carefully rehearsed story about a pleasant evening at a high-end London restaurant. As ever, I’m incredibly grateful that my wife is an impeccable liar when she needs to be. My parents certainly don’t need to hear the truth: a mediocre home-cooked dinner followed by yet another miserable attempt at intimacy, during which I failed to finish, and following which Astoria spent an hour crying in the en-suite. Yes, the value of a good white lie is greater than any quantity of gold.

I’d have put ten galleons on the truce being broken by my father – he loves to raise the issue of blood purity after a couple of glasses of wine – but in the end it’s my mother who ruins the evening.

“It’s all well and good having time _as a couple_ , but what about the next step?” she asks as the House-elves clear away our plates. “You really ought to hurry up, you know.”

Astoria smiles politely, but her grip on my fingers beneath the table is like a vice. “Really, Narcissa. We’re still young. We have plenty of time for all of that.”

My mother raises her eyebrows, her face a picture of condescension. “Young? Draco will be thirty this year. I appreciate that your career is very important to you, but you should be mindful of using it to deny him an heir.”

My mother in particular has come to the conclusion that our childlessness is down to some defect with Astoria. If only they knew. Then again, if she continues to press the matter, I expect one day Astoria will snap and the ugly truth will come out in one big outburst. I wonder what my parents would say to _that_.

They’re both looking at me expectantly. I keep my mouth shut; choosing a side would be akin to suicide. My father, meanwhile, has somehow managed to acquire a glass of brandy. He holds it up to the light and examines it intently, making it quite clear that he’s disengaged and wants no part in this conversation.

The topic is finally dropped when we move through to the sitting room; my mother thaws somewhat whilst showing off the new curtains – hand-made in Peru at a cost of 100 galleons per pair. Astoria coos over them and comments on the exceptionally high thread count, but I can tell from the set of her jaw that my mother is far from forgiven.

When we finally step back through the Floo into the safety of our living room, Astoria wastes no time in slipping off her shoes, dropping four inches in the space of a second.

“Thanks for standing up to your mother for me,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She looks furious, as she has every right to be.

I put my hand up to my forehead and massage my temples. The stress of the evening has given me a terrible headache. “You know it’s not worth the fight.”

Astoria smiles thinly and shakes her head at my pathetic response. “How convenient.” She steps in front of the mirror and makes a start on her hair, scattering hairpins on the floor around her as she frees her long blonde curls from their neat updo. “She has a point, you know.”

“Who has?” I ask, as repressively as I possibly can.

Astoria shoots me a withering look. “Stop being evasive. Your mother.”

I hum noncommittally and make a show of unpicking the knot of my tie, willing her to drop the topic.

“Draco, are you listening?”

I take a long, deep breath and manage to cling to my temper by my fingertips. “Yes, I’m listening.” Of course I’m listening. It would be difficult not to, given that everyone seems to have taken it upon themselves to bombard me with this matter from every angle.

“I think, we need to make a more … concentrated effort.”

I stare at her, desperately hoping she’ll shut up. “Oh?”

“You know,” she continues, shifting uncomfortably under my scrutiny, “maybe set up a chart or something, so we can keep track of when it’s most likely to happen. It would give you a bit more warning, too, I suppose,” she finishes delicately.

Her last sentence leaves my mouth dry: this isn’t something we discuss. It’s the final straw: I realise that if I want to close the subject, subtlety isn’t going to cut it tonight. “I need a drink. Would you like anything?”

She raises her eyebrows and looks at me in disbelief. “Really, Draco?” 

I don’t have an answer to that, so I step towards her and press my lips to her forehead. Her hair feels as soft as it looks, and smells faintly of strawberries.

“You look beautiful,” I mutter. She gives a little huffing sigh, unconvinced. The message is clear: it’s not enough for me to say it when my actions indicate otherwise.

I slip away to my study with a pain-relieving potion and a generous gin and tonic, trying hard not to think about the look on Astoria’s face as I left her downstairs.

I can’t quite believe it’s only Saturday. I find myself looking ahead to next Friday, looking forward to my next coffee with Harry. At least I never have to worry about this sort of thing with him.

~*~*~*~

I’m trying to unpick a particularly intricate knot of magic on the fastening of a Mokeskin purse when I hear the familiar rattle of the shop door. It’s been stiff since we took on the lease, and no amount of cleaning or lubrication charms have made a jot of difference; the doors are always the first things to suffer in these old buildings.

“It’s open,” I call, keeping my gaze fixed on the task before me. “You need to give it a shove. Pull and push!”

There’s a loud knock, followed by more insistent rattling. It grows louder and louder until I eventually let out a heavy sigh and set the purse down on the counter. Mrs Wilkins will have to wait a little longer to gain access to her family jewels.

I look up and jump when I see Harry’s face peering through the dusty pane of the door. I should have known from the bullish attempt to gain entry that it would be him.

I can see immediately why he was struggling so much; he’s holding a takeaway coffee cup in each hand. My irritation at being interrupted evaporates at the sight of them and I stalk over to the door to let him in.

“Potter.” I may finally have started to think of him as _Harry_ , but there’s no need to let him know that.

“You should get that fixed,” he says, nodding towards the door handle. “Have you tried a lubrication charm?”

I take a deep breath. I should be immune to him by now – we’ve been meeting up for the best part of three months, after all – but he never seems to get any less infuriating. “ _Yes_ , Potter. I have tried to fix it – unsuccessfully, as you can see. You’re welcome to have a go yourself, if you feel you know something I don’t? Some kind of special lubrication charm, perhaps?”

I don’t realise what I’ve said until he flushes a deep pink. “Erm, no, you’re alright,” he chokes out, looking slightly stunned.

Mortified, I take the smaller cup from him and appraise the messy scrawl on its side: ‘ _Flat White, Ray_ ’. I give us both a moment to wish we’d never been born, and when I feel that the excruciating silence has extended quite long enough, I clear my throat.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“You always come to me, so I thought it was time I checked out Black’s,” he grins, sounding relieved. “Though I’ve heard the owner is a right grumpy bastard.”

I smirk. “I’m not sure where you’ve heard that. I’ve been told that he’s highly professional and exceptionally charming.” I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors on the ‘Urgent Repairs’ shelf. “And terribly handsome,” I add.

Harry snorts with laughter. “And modest, too, right?”

He looks around, taking in the neatly organised shelves and the myriad of larger objects stacked against the back wall. I’m unexpectedly self-conscious. The room is scrupulously tidy, as always, but if I’d known he was coming, I would have given it a once over.

The way he’s appraising the room makes me uncomfortable, so I cast about for a way to distract him. “I take it you have an artefact which requires repairing, as opposed to simply dropping by to waste my time?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Right.” He reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a silver pocket-watch.

He holds it up for a moment – it’s badly tarnished, but it still gleams in the light – before passing it to me. Our fingers touch as I take it, and I can’t help but notice the contrast between them. Harry’s hands are much stronger than mine; shorter fingers, rougher skin. All in all, very masculine hands.

The metal casing of the watch is cool and heavy in my palm, and lightly textured with well-worn engravings. I pick up my wand and cast a gentle _Tergeo_ to remove the worst of the discolouration, then take a closer look at the crest on the front. “Where on earth did you get this, Potter?”

“It used to belong to my godfather – Sirius Black. I want to alter the hands, but I have no idea how to do it.”

I flip open the lid and have to fight back a laugh. The only hand has a tiny and rather unflattering engraving of Harry’s face on it, complete with scruffy hair and round-framed glasses. It's pointing sharply to ‘ _Desecrating the Noble House of Black_ ’. And they say Pure-bloods have no sense of humour.

“I see no issues with it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

I examine it more closely. “A watch with just you on it is ridiculous. You know your own status, you fool.” I turn it over in my hand to look at the pattern on the back. “Unless you intend to give it to someone as a gift? A boyfriend, perhaps?” The word catches in my mouth and it takes some effort to force it out. “Though, if it’s Muggle company you’re keeping, it would be highly inappropriate.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No, it’s for me.”

“In which case, is there anyone else you want to add? Your friends, perhaps?”

He looks surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that. Yeah, that would be great.”

He hadn’t thought of it. Merlin, he’s practically a Squib.

“I’ll need their magical signatures to add them to the charmwork. You’ll have to bring me something they’ve charmed or transfigured so I can take a copy. In the meantime…” With a flick of my wand, I alter the existing hand. Now his likeness looks far more like the real thing, and the hand points towards ‘ _Keeping good company_ ’.

“You might as well add yourself, too.” He says it lightly, but he isn’t quite able to meet my eye.

My stomach turns over. “Me?”

“Yeah. We’re friends, so…” he trails off, then his courage fires up and he looks up at me, suddenly fierce. “We _are_ friends, you know.”

I freeze. He’s right, of course. Almost twenty years after he turned down my hand, we’re friends. We have been for months, really, but it still gives me pause to hear him say it so plainly.

“Fine.”

Adding a new hand is rather more complicated than adjusting an existing one, so I settle into the chair behind the counter and set to work.

After a moment, Harry wanders over to see what I’m doing. I’m painfully aware of his presence as he hovers behind me, so close I can smell his aftershave. It’s horribly distracting, but thankfully he quickly gets bored and begins pacing the length of the room.

The floorboards moan quietly beneath his feet. It’s maddening, but I can see he’s working up to saying something, so I don’t interrupt.

“I’ve had a think about what you said the other week,” he says eventually. “I’ve made my decision. I want to come back.”

My wand slips against the face of the watch. I’d been hoping he’d come around to the idea, but I didn’t think it would happen so quickly. It takes great effort to conceal my glee, but I keep my face perfectly neutral and continue to tinker with the watch.

My failure to respond makes him uncomfortable enough to continue talking. “It’s been too long, and you were right: why should I hide? I think if I had the right agent to deal with the press attention, it might not be such a nightmare … Draco, are you listening to me?”

I finally look up. He’s watching me so earnestly I can’t help but smile. “Yes. I’ll put you in contact with Pansy.”

He recoils. “Pansy? You’d better not be talking about Pansy Parkinson.”

I finish with the watch and put down my wand. “Technically she’s Pansy Parkinson-Nott, these days. But yes. You’d be hard-pressed to find a better PR firm than Parkinson Zabini, and trust me, she’s a thousand times easier to deal with than Blaise.”

Harry’s staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Parkinson Zabini,” he mouths.

I can understand his scepticism; he’s been out of touch with the Wizarding world for over half a decade, after all. The last he knew, Pansy was a pariah, much like the rest of my social circle. He’s missed the remarkable way in which she managed to rebuild her reputation and rebrand herself as a public relations guru within the space of just eighteen months.

It would have been so easy for Pansy to take the Rita Skeeter route: she has a knack for knowing everything about everyone. When given the choice, though, she opted to use her affinity for gossip as a tool for building people up, rather than knocking them down. She still makes her living primarily through the publication of lies – and don’t get me wrong, they're often rather more than white lies – but the underlying purpose is quite different. There's a perverse nobility there, or at least, that's how I see it. Of course, she’s more interested in the money than the idea of doing a good deed – her prices are astronomical. That’s no concern to Harry, though, loaded as he is.

I pass him the watch. My engraved likeness, complete with pointed chin and condescending expression, is pointing at at the newly created location of ‘ _Black’s Repairs_ ’. Harry holds it up to take a closer look, and his face immediately splits into a wide grin.

“This is brilliant, Draco! It looks just like you!”

I shrug. “It’s a fairly simple charm. I’ve performed it more times than I’d care to think about.” _Never to add myself to a watch, though_.

He stares at it in wonder for at least a minute longer, holding it up to the light and examining it from every angle, before finally dropping it into his coat pocket.

“Okay, I’ll meet with Pansy,” he says, sounding deeply reluctant. “I want you there, though. Fight Slytherin with Slytherin, and all that.”

“That can be arranged,” I nod. “It’ll have to be after Easter, though. She and Theo are away at the moment – somewhere sickeningly exotic, no doubt. Can you wait a couple of weeks?”

“Yeah, no problem. That would be great.”

Harry has apparently reached his threshold for serious conversation: he pauses only long enough to take a breath before launching into a story about an awful customer who demanded that he re-make their coffee no fewer than four times because “its aura was off”.

“Perhaps he fancied you,” I suggest mildly. I’m surprised by niggle of discomfort which makes itself known in my chest as I say the words.

He bursts out laughing. “God, no! I hope not. He was about twenty years older than me and had hairy knuckles – not my type at all.”

“No? What is your type, exactly?” Why on earth am I asking that? He’s going to think I’m bloody flirting with him if I’m not careful.

He flashes me a playful grin. “Fair, skinny ... someone I can throw around a bit in the bedroom, you know?”

_Fuck_. I’m dimly aware that my mouth has fallen open. I shut it quickly and swallow hard. It feels as though every drop of blood in my body has rushed south all at once, leaving me dizzy and incoherent, clutching at the counter for support.

“Anyway, I’d best be off. I’m meeting Ron and Hermione for lunch to tell them the good news,” he says, the faint flush which graces his cheeks the only indication that I didn't imagine his previous, depraved comment. “Have a good Easter. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

He turns and saunters out of the shop, leaving me wide-eyed, gaping, and horribly flustered.


	2. Spring into Summer

## Spring into Summer

After much deliberation, I decide to use my own home as the venue for Harry’s first meeting with Pansy. I regret it the moment I hear the doorbell ring.

The sight of Harry on my front porch is a surreal one. He’s standing with his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets, and his familiar broad grin makes my chest feel tight. I’m entirely too pleased to see him.

The past two weeks have been horrendous and I’ve missed him; missed how he slouches against every piece of furniture he encounters, and the way he has no regard for etiquette, asking personal questions with the ease of someone asking about the weather.

I show him inside and he slips out of his coat, revealing a faded red t-shirt which looks as if it’s never come into contact with an iron. I fight the urge to make a snide comment. Only Harry would think it’s acceptable to dress like a vagrant for an important business meeting.

I hang his coat up and signal for him to follow me. As we walk, he gestures vaguely at the walls of the hallway. “No taxidermy House-elves? I’m disappointed.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Why would I have those?”

“Oh, no reason.” He shrugs and gives me a wry little smile. I’ll never understand him.

I lead him through to the kitchen, feeling oddly self-conscious. They say that a person’s home is a reflection of their true self; I wonder what my home says of me. I hope it doesn’t give too much away.

Harry halts abruptly in the doorway as he catches sight of Astoria. It seems he was expecting me to be home alone. It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption to make, given that it’s Friday morning.

His eyes flicker from Astoria to me, and back again. I’m well acquainted with the look on his face – I’ve seen it all too many times before. It’s a variant of ‘What’s _she_ doing with _him_?’

I can't blame him. However you look at it, Astoria is undoubtedly out of my league.

She looks particularly striking today. She’s wearing her blonde hair in loose curls, and has eschewed the reviled orange work robes in favour of a classy indigo dress. She has a meeting in France this afternoon: she always dresses her best when she’s heading to Paris – something to do with flying the flag for England in a room of stylish French women. She looks the very picture of femininity, all soft curves to my sharp edges – and Merlin knows, I have plenty.

Pansy once told me, after a few too many Firewhiskys, that while none of my features are in themselves unattractive, my face is “not easy to look at”. I was horrified at the time, but I suppose she had a point. I’ve inherited each of my parents’ pointiest features, and they haven’t softened with age. I like my high cheekbones, but when paired with my nose, the effect is a touch haughty. Astoria sometimes jokes that you could cut glass on my jawline. All in all, women tend to find my look a little severe. Men, however … I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been propositioned by men. Harry’s comment from the other week, the one about his taste in men, comes back to me in a flash and my mind supplies an insidious little question: _I wonder whether Harry finds me attractive?_ I squash the thought immediately, but it’s too late: I feel a flush creeping up my neck, clutching at my cheeks.

Astoria notices and raises an eyebrow before greeting Harry with a smile. She’s always had a knack for putting people at ease, and this is no exception. She asks Harry about the café and he immediately launches into the story of how he came to own it.

He’s still talking when Pansy arrives via the Floo a few minutes later. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her use a front door in all the years I’ve known her, though she insists upon visitors using hers when they go round for dinner. She likes the drama of opening it and ushering people inside.

We hear her before we see her; her spiky heels strike the floor so loudly I make a mental note to check it for chips when everyone has left. She eventually marches into the kitchen as if she owns it, looking severe in a pinstriped suit cut as sharply as her sleek black bob.

Astoria visibly prickles at the sight of her. I’ve never known Astoria to object to anyone in the way she does to Pansy. They usually keep their distance, but when they cross paths, Pansy goes all out to cause trouble. Thankfully I can count on my wife to take the moral high ground. Astoria once suggested that she suspects Pansy is jealous of her – in fairness, she did usurp Pansy’s position as my best friend. I suspect there’s a grain of truth there, though hell will freeze over before Pansy admits it.

True to form, Pansy ignores Astoria completely as she stalks up to me and kisses the air beside my cheek. “Draco.”

“How was the holiday?” I ask.

She describes a heavenly three-week stay in the Caribbean with a matter-of-factness that borders on boredom, before turning her attention to Harry.

“Potter,” she says, holding out her hand. Harry shakes it and winces slightly; Pansy has a firmer handshake than any man I’ve ever met. I dread to think how else her vice-like grip manifests itself. Poor Theo.

“Parkinson,” he replies with a wry smile. I’m grudgingly impressed by his easy confidence, though I should have expected it. He defeated You-Know-Who, after all; Pansy should be a piece of cake.

Ever keen to stir up some drama, Pansy deliberately chooses Astoria’s place at the kitchen table. She drops her bag with a _thunk_ and retrieves a notepad, a business card and an extravagant ostrich-feather quill.

“I’d best be off,” Astoria says. “Don’t want to keep the French Minister waiting.” Her tone is breezy, but a faint crease has appeared between her eyebrows; try as she might, she can’t completely conceal Pansy’s effect on her.

She stops beside me on her way out and I peck her on the cheek, hyper-aware of Harry’s eyes on me as I do so.

“Good luck – and don’t forget to bring back some croissants!”

With a promise that she wouldn’t dare visit France without popping into a patisserie, she sweeps from the room and heads for the living room Floo.

Silence falls, and Harry and I take our seats opposite Pansy. The social atmosphere has vanished along with Astoria; we’ve moved firmly into business territory.

Pansy watches Harry for a moment, grinning like a hungry shark. She stabs a manicured fingernail into her business card and slides it across the table. Casual as ever, Harry barely looks at it before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans.

“At Parkinson Zabini, we take a three step approach,” Pansy begins, using the same cool professional tone she employs when managing the press. “First, we’ll look at where you are versus where you want to be. Second, we’ll create a road map to get you there. And finally, we’ll make the journey with you, managing the press and the public every step of the way.”

Harry nods slowly as he absorbs her words, though he looks slightly sceptical.

Pansy pauses for a moment, before leaning forward in her seat and picking up her quill. “First things first, what is that that you want, Mr Potter?”

He winces at the formality. “Erm, can you just call me Harry?”

“Absolutely. Whatever makes you most comfortable, _Harry_. I’ll be working for you here, after all.”

“Right,” he says, looking wary. “Well what I want is to come back, I suppose. I’ve been living amongst Muggles for … god, nearly five and a half years, now … and it’s time to get back into the Wizarding world.”

Pansy nods and scribbles something on her notepad.

“Oh, and I want to come out to the public as gay.” He says it so casually, almost like an afterthought, and even though it’s nothing new to me, my stomach seizes up.

Ever professional, Pansy doesn’t bat an eyelid. She twirls the tip of her feathered quill between her fingers. “It’s going to generate a lot of press. How do you want to harness it? Political ambitions? Wealth creation?”

Harry laughs right in her face. “God, no. Nothing like that.” He pauses and bites his lower lip for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what I want, yet,” he admits. “I’ll definitely need some help managing press attention, though. I want to be able to live without constantly getting hassled.”

Pansy simply nods and makes a note on her pad. “No problem. We can arrange that.”

She makes another note and launches into an explanation of the many ways in which her firm assists its star-studded client list. I have to admit she’s impressive.

When she first set up with Blaise, we were all convinced the business wouldn’t last a year. We couldn’t have been more wrong, a fact which Pansy loves to bring up at every opportunity. In fairness, the odds were firmly stacked against them; from their complete lack of experience to their tattered reputations – Pansy as the girl who tried to hand over Harry Potter to You-Know-Who, Blaise as the archetypal lothario – it looked like a recipe for disaster. I think the turning point came when they refused to accept politicians as clients, or perhaps when they secured the contract to manage the affairs of the Wimbourne Wasps. Either way, the firm grew from strength to strength, and even now it shows no signs of stopping.

With Pansy’s pitch complete, Harry begins to question her. They’re not bad questions either: he wants to know which newspapers Parkinson Zabini typically targets, whether the firm can manage day to day press enquiries as well as big press releases, and the price of doing so. Pansy has an answer for everything, of course.

They shouldn’t get on, and yet they do. Twice I catch Pansy watching Harry intently, biting the inside of her cheek. It’s a classic sign that someone has won her respect. That Harry has managed it so quickly is remarkable.

By the time Pansy leaves two hours later, Harry has signed a contract to engage Parkinson Zabini as his press management agents, effective immediately.

The businesslike atmosphere departs along with her, leaving Harry and I standing by the living room fireplace.

“I’d best be off, too,” Harry says, eyes fixed on the unlit grate.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s a light touch, but the moment his fingers come into contact with my shirt, my skin feels as if it’s on fire. He doesn’t normally touch me.

“Thanks, Draco,” he says, completely oblivious to his effect on me.

I arch an eyebrow. “What for?”

He shrugs and flashes one of his bright smiles. “For convincing me to come back. For arranging the meeting with Pansy. Just, generally.”

We head to the front door and he says goodbye. As I watch him amble down the street, I’m powerless to stop my right hand from creeping up to my left shoulder. My skin is still tingling from his touch.

~*~*~*~

My suspicions that Harry has won Pansy’s respect are confirmed when she invites him to her dinner party at the end of May. There’s a spare seat at the table – Astoria is away with work, as is so often the case when these parties come around – and Pansy tells me to bring Harry along.

When I suggest it to him, I expect him to be hesitant. As usual, I’ve underestimated him. He agrees so quickly and with such enthusiasm it makes me wonder just how often he’s been meeting with Pansy over the past few weeks.

“Yeah, why not?” he grins. “It’ll be interesting to see how much of an arse you are around your mates.”

I’m not sure when he got so cheeky, or when I started allowing him to talk to me like that. If it were anyone else, I’d almost certainly hex them.

At Harry’s suggestion, we meet at my house on the evening of the dinner party.

I can't help but notice he’s made an effort, foregoing the usual ratty t-shirt in favour of a smart shirt in Slytherin green. When I point it out, he grins and tells me he figured that if he’s getting thrown into the snake pit, he may as well dress for it.

The plan is for me to Side-Along him to Pansy’s house. I offer him my arm, but in a classically Harry display of over-familiarity, he takes my hand instead. Heat rushes over my skin as he laces our fingers together.

We turn on the spot and miraculously arrive, intact, on Pansy’s front porch. I snatch my hand free immediately.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, as I reach for the brass knocker.

“No.” The defiant jut of his chin betrays his lie.

“You should be,” I smirk, “my friends are horrible.” I rap three times against the ebony door.

He laughs. “Yeah, but you're definitely the worst of the bunch, and I can handle you just fine. Even before you've had your morning coffee.”

I cuff him lightly on the shoulder. “I take it back. You’ll fit right in.”

To my utter disbelief, he does.

When Pansy throws open the door with a dramatic flourish, he greets her like an old friend, leaning in to kiss the air beside each of her cheeks and complimenting her – quite frankly, rather sluttish – red dress.

She leads us through to the sitting room and introduces Harry to the group. It’s the usual crowd: Blaise, lounging across three sofa cushions wearing, dear god, a cream suit; Millie, make-up free as usual, looking smart in her crisp white shirt and black trousers; and Theo, perched on the armchair in the corner, looking as though he’d rather have his nose in a book.

“So you’re Draco’s substitute wife for the evening, then?” Blaise smirks.

“Erm, if by that you mean we’ll spend half the evening bickering and sleep in separate beds, I suppose I am?” Harry grins.

Blaise laughs, low and smooth, and hauls himself up from the sofa to shake Harry’s hand. I feel a prickle of discomfort as I see Harry look him up and down with more than a hint of appreciation. He’s wasting his time: Blaise is straight as an arrow, though you’d never guess it, the way he flirts with anything with a pulse.

When we move through to the dining room for dinner, Harry continues to make an excellent impression. By the time the second course comes to an end, it’s as if he’s always been part of the group. He successfully gets Millie talking about her job as an Investment Manager at Gringotts, and even Theo, notoriously reserved when it comes to social events, warms to him over a long chat about Muggle sports, which goes over the rest of our heads.

The food is delicious, as usual; the herb-crusted rack of lamb is one of the best I’ve ever tasted. Pansy’s dinner parties always make me wish Astoria would let us get a House-elf.

The conversation takes a turn for the risqué over dessert as Pansy and Blaise begin an assessment of their dishiest clients. Blaise is convinced the winner should be Aurora Warbeck, notorious socialite and granddaughter of the legendary Celestina.

Pansy, meanwhile, argues that the top spot should go to Seán O’Sullivan, the new Keeper for the Kenmare Kestrels, on account of his spectacular arse. When Blaise disagrees, she looks around the table, seeking support. Millie’s a lost cause, and Theo’s intelligent enough to keep his mouth shut on these matters, so she turns to Harry.

“What do you think, Harry? I suppose bloke’s arses would be your scene?” she smirks.

Everyone’s eyes flit to Harry, unsure what to do in light of Pansy’s casual outing. He just rolls his eyes. “Very original, Pansy. I’m not actually sure who he is, to be honest. I’m a bit out of the loop with Quidditch.”

Pansy sighs. “Useless! What about you, Draco? What do you think?”

I glare at her. “I think you can always be counted upon to lower the tone, Pans.”

Pansy snickers. “Draco likes to pretend that he’s immune from the carnal desires which grip the rest of us, but you should see his face when he’s watching the Magpies play.”

My stomach reacts with a violent leap, as though my chair has fallen through the floor. My throat tightens and I bite down instinctively on the inside of my cheeks, drawing blood. I can feel a flush creeping up my neck; I desperately hope it’s a subtle one.

Pansy’s tittering away and Harry’s laughing politely along with her, but he looks confused. Isolated from the Wizarding world though he may be, even he knows that the Magpies are all very much male.

Pansy glances at me and seems to realise she’s gone too far. She swiftly brings the conversation back to safer shores: her and Theo’s upcoming four-year wedding anniversary. I don’t know how he puts up with her.

That in turn leads her onto a far more interesting topic. In that shameless, brazen manner which is so typical of Pansy, she comes right out with the question I’ve been wondering for months.

“No boyfriend, Harry?” she asks.

He shifts in his seat, surprised to find everyone’s attention on him again. “Oh, no. Not at the moment.”

Blaise raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have trouble in that area.”

“I don’t have trouble _pulling_ blokes,” Harry says, with a sheepish smile. He looks almost embarrassed to admit it. “It’s just difficult to turn a one-off into something more serious because I can’t let my guard down around Muggles. I don’t trust myself not to cast a _Lumos_ , or something.”

Blaise smirks. “Well the solution to that is obvious, isn’t it? Try going after your own sort.”

Harry laughs. “Wizards? Yeah, right. They’d either fawn over me like I’m something special, or just want to get their name in the papers.”

“The perils of being a celebrity. What a difficult life you lead,” I drawl.

“Don’t be a dick, Draco.” Harry gives me a gentle nudge as he says it, and I’m not at all comfortable with the way Pansy and Millie exchange a knowing glance across the table.

The conversation is effectively put to bed as two of Pansy’s House-elves appear, ready to clear away our plates.

We all traipse back through to the sitting room to find a tray on the coffee table containing one, two, three, four, five flutes of champagne, and one of sparkling cranberry juice.

Pansy ushers us all into a circle and hands out the glasses, taking the jewel-red fizz for herself. A horrible, heavy feeling fills my stomach as I realise where this is going.

Pansy clears her throat. “Theo and I have some news to share with you, in case you haven’t already guessed from the fact that I was drinking water with dinner.” She pauses for dramatic effect and wraps her arm around Theo’s waist. “We’re expecting.”

It takes me a moment to process her words. When I do, I feel as if a Dementor has entered the room. A sick chill washes over me, inside and out, freezing me to my core. All I can think is that I’m desperately grateful Astoria isn’t here.

The others look similarly shocked; Pansy’s not exactly the maternal type, after all, and Theo’s certainly never given any indication of wanting a family. We stand, stunned into silence, for the best part of a minute.

Blaise recovers first, and lets out a low whistle. “Fucking hell, Pans.”

“Congratulations,” says Harry, raising his glass.

I force a rigid smile and join the toast, but I can’t speak. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.

We all lean in and touch our glasses together with a delicate _clink_. I drain mine in a single gulp.

I’m not sure why I’m surprised. If anything, it’s odd that we’re all still childless at nearly thirty. The Hufflepuffs from our year started breeding like bloody garden gnomes the moment they left Hogwarts, and the Gryffindors followed suit not long after. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Still, I think we all expected me to be the first.

“When’s the monster spawn due, then?” Blaise asks.

Pansy narrows her eyes at him. “Early January. It’s really early to be telling people – I’m only eight weeks gone – but we couldn’t resist.” She grins at Theo, who looks as if he’d have had no trouble resisting at all.

“That’s pretty close to Christmas,” Millie comments. It sounds off-hand, but we all – perhaps with the exception of Harry – know she’s really asking whether it was planned.

“It was a bit of a surprise, if you know what I mean,” Pansy smirks. She raises her eyes to the ceiling as if to say ‘ _Silly me!_ ’; as if falling pregnant is as easy as lying; as if the pressure to start a family doesn’t take over some couples’ lives, pushing them to breaking point and beyond.

I only manage another ten minutes before I make my excuses and leave. Harry looks around for his jacket, but I tell him not to be so ridiculous. The last thing I need is to give Pansy and Millie the satisfaction of seeing us leave together.

~*~*~*~

When I get home to a cold and empty house, I turn on the lights and spend a good fifteen minutes pacing the length of the living room, seething.

I’m furious that Pansy broke the news of her pregnancy to me with everyone else present. She may be known for her straight-talking, but her lack of tact is galling; she knows perfectly well that Astoria and I have been struggling to conceive. I could have throttled her over the flippant comment about the baby being a ‘surprise’.

Even aside from the pregnancy, I’m fuming over that stupid remark about the Magpies. Pansy has always had her suspicions about my preferences: she discovered a well-thumbed copy of _Quidditch Studs_ beneath my bed during Fifth Year, and I’ve never quite managed to convince her that it wasn't mine. She usually has the good sense to keep her mouth shut, though. I can’t believe she dared to touch on the topic tonight – and in front of _Harry_ , of all people! I dread to think what conclusions he must have drawn.

The pacing was supposed to calm me down, but all I’m doing is winding myself up even more. I stride over to the liquor cabinet and pour myself what must be at least a quadruple measure of scotch. The very fact that I opt for whisky is a testament to how off-balance I am; I usually stick to gin, resorting to the rather maudlin dark spirits only in emergencies.

I stalk up the stairs with the intention of taking my drink up to bed, but when I reach the doorway to the bedroom, I keep walking. I keep going all the way to the end of the landing, to the very furthest room, and slip inside.

I despise this room. We’ve lived in this house for over five years, and I could count the number of times I’ve been inside it on the fingers of one hand.

When we moved in, Astoria wouldn't let us decorate it, reasoning that it would be needed for a new purpose soon enough. She’s never voiced that purpose; she doesn't need to.

The only piece of furniture is a plush chair, set in the back corner, arms open wide as if it’s waiting to be filled. The entire room is waiting to be filled. The atmosphere of emptiness, of barely restrained longing, is cloying. Expectation weighs so heavily in the air I can barely breathe it in. These four walls lay Astoria’s desires – and my own shortcomings – bare.

Artificial light from the lamp post outside spills through the bare window, illuminating the room in a dim, desolate glow.

I don't want this; don’t want to fill the room. I’ve never wanted it, really, but that hardly matters; it’s far too late to extricate myself now. In a way, I hate _her_ for wanting it. I have no right to: a family is a perfectly reasonable thing to want, and it’s not as if I didn’t promise her one.

I made that promise in my early twenties. I didn't really think about what I was agreeing to – it all seemed so distant back then. I suppose I assumed that things would be different by the time we came to act upon it; that _I_ would be different, stronger somehow, and better able to pay the price. I’m not different, though, and I’m no longer sure I can keep my word.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the vacant armchair, but eventually something snaps. Self-pity gives way to rage, pulsing hot and thick in my chest.

I hurl my glass at the wall. It shatters on contact. Amber whisky trickles down the magnolia walls and creeps onto the cream carpet, the dark stain blooming slowly outwards like blood in water.

I stay perfectly still, taking deep, measured breaths. Several minutes pass before I’m able to draw my wand, and even then, my hands are shaking slightly.

“ _Reparo!_ ”

The tumbler reassembles itself with a _clink_ , each shard of glass easing flawlessly into place, leaving no indication of a break. Nothing can be done about the whisky: the carpet is delicate and will need a specialist cleaning charm. I decide to leave it, to see how long it is before Astoria mentions the stain.

I pick up the glass and return it to the kitchen, then head to bed. It’s futile, of course; lying down in a dark room only serves to intensify my racing thoughts.

When Astoria finally arrives home in the early hours of the morning, I steady my breathing and pretend to be asleep. She presses her lips to my forehead, leaving a searing stab of guilt along with the usual smear of lipstick.

She deserves better.

~*~*~*~

The following Friday I arrive at _The Coffee Pot_ to find our usual table empty. Harry’s over by the counter chatting with Matilda, but he comes rushing over when he catches sight of me, clutching a takeaway cup in each hand.

“Paper cups? Your standards are slipping,” I tease as he passes me the smaller of the two.

“I thought we’d go for a walk, for a change,” Harry smiles, gesturing at the bright sunshine streaming through the window. “Don’t worry, you can still have your poncey biscotti.”

“I should hope so,” I smirk. “Your biscotti are the only reason I come here.”

I slip out of my jacket and, as an afterthought, my waistcoat, and give them to Matilda for safekeeping; it’s surprisingly warm outside and I spent the entire walk from my shop wishing I’d worn something lighter. Even without them, I’m almost comically overdressed compared to Harry. He looks as slovenly as ever in a black t-shirt that has seen better days and a pair of jeans with a huge tear in the right knee.

I make a point of eyeing him with an expression of utter disdain. Harry’s jeans have become a regular point of contention over the last few months. I can’t get my head around his insistence on wearing them all the time, while he refuses to believe that I don’t own a single pair.

We stroll down to St James’s Park. It’s not far, only twenty minutes or so, with a slight detour to avoid the bustle of Trafalgar Square – I’m sure the surge of tourists begins a little earlier every year.

We’re on the very cusp of summer and the park is ablaze with bright, fresh colours. The beds on either side of the path are packed full of tulips, a sea of colourful cupped hands reaching for the sky.

When we arrive at the edge of the lake, Harry slips his rucksack off his shoulder and pulls out a bag containing a few slices of bread.

“Do you want a piece?” he asks, holding out the bag.

I choke back a laugh. “Let me think … I’m not five years old, so no thanks. I think I’ll survive without contributing to the park’s avian obesity epidemic.” I point to a particularly plump duck. “That one probably weighs more than me!”

“Your loss,” he grins. He reaches into his pocket and passes me a small, carefully wrapped package; my biscotti.

I remove the lid of my cup with a _pop_ and dip the biscotti into my coffee. It’s still scalding hot: warming charms really come into their own on occasions such as this.

I watch as Harry launches bits of bread as far as he can, arching his whole body as he makes one graceful overarm throw after another. His elegant movements are captivating; I can't tear my eyes away.

It’s not long before a couple of the park’s famous pelicans appear, eager for a slice of the action. They burst through the crowd of ducks, flapping their great wings and flexing their throat pouches. Harry wisely withholds the bread until they glide away, disappointed.

A long silence drags out, but I don't try to break it. If I know Harry – and I like to think I do – he’s brought me here for a reason.

“I’ve decided what I’m going to do,” he says eventually.

“Oh? And what’s that, exactly?” I ask. I’m intrigued; he’s been planning something with Pansy for weeks, but thus far he’s been frustratingly tight-lipped about it.

“I’m going to set up a charity.”

Of course he bloody is. “What type of charity?”

“Something that’s important to me. Something worthwhile.” He pauses to tear up a fresh slice of bread and toss a few fragments into the lake. “A charity to support young witches and wizards who are gay. You know, to raise awareness, offer support – and protection, even, if they need it – give advice … that sort of thing.”

He starts to explain the findings of his research, listing statistics and case studies, but I’m only half-listening; his words have stirred up a maelstrom of my own memories.

My mind’s eye flits from family dinners where my parents drop in references to ‘heirs’ and ‘bloodlines’, to tattered copies of _Quidditch Studs_ , to awkward fumbling in disused classrooms, to desperate decisions to bury unwanted feelings. The familiar knot of fear and longing bubbles up in my chest, every bit as strong as it felt back then.

Harry’s looking at me expectantly, but I find myself unable to speak. There’s a lump in my throat and I can’t quite shift it.

“Draco? I said, do you think it’s stupid?” He’s looking at me, as serious as I’ve ever seen him, waiting to hear what I think as if my opinion is the most important thing in the world.

I swallow hard. “Harry, I think it’s perfect.”

I really do. It’s so thoughtful, so vital, so completely and utterly _Harry_ that now he’s said it, I can’t picture him doing anything else.

His shoulders sag with relief, then, with barely a split second’s warning, he pulls me towards him and envelops me in a fierce hug.

It takes me by surprise – _nobody_ hugs me – and I stiffen, my posture turning rigid in his arms. His chest is flat and firm against mine, and he smells good enough to eat; his aftershave is all spice and musk, so rich it borders on sordid. I’m hit by an unexpected urge to bury my face in his neck and inhale as deeply as I can.

Thankfully, he senses my discomfort and releases me before I can do anything stupid.

“What was that for?” I ask, sounding slightly strangled.

“I don't know,” he shrugs. “For supporting me? For helping to make this happen? Oh, and for not saying anything mean about my idea. That must have been difficult.”

I raise an eyebrow and ease into my most sarcastic tone. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me.”

“Come off it, Draco. You’re a snarky git and it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d take the piss of.” He pauses and looks me intently. “I’d have forgiven you if you had, you know – you're my _favourite_ snarky git.” He flashes me a smile that makes my heart leap into my throat.

“Right.” It’s all I can manage; I’m mollified at the notion of being his favourite anything.

When the ducks are stuffed to bursting point, we wander slowly back to the café. The temperature has continued to rise and my back grows increasingly sticky, to the point that I’m actually envious of Harry’s horrible t-shirt. I’d never admit that to him, of course.

He fills me in on the details of his plan as we walk. It seems that he and Pansy are looking to set up two walk-in centres – one in Diagon Alley and one in Hogsmeade – and run regular events throughout the year. Pansy’s been trying, with limited success, to convince Harry that they should officially launch the charity at the Ministry’s Christmas Ball.

When we arrive back at the café, Matilda retrieves my jacket and waistcoat from behind the counter. She passes them to me, then stands smiling expectantly at us.

“What’s up with you?” Harry asks.

She tucks a lock of electric-blue hair behind her ear. “Did you two have a nice date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” we choke in unison.

“Riiiight. Of course it wasn’t.” She tips us each a huge wink. “You could cut the sexual tension with a knife!” She strolls off through the door behind the counter in a fit of raucous laughter, leaving me and Harry to exchange our rather awkward goodbyes.

~*~*~*~

The glorious weather was too good to last; it breaks into a wet and windy thunderstorm during the course of the afternoon.

I stay at the shop until eight o’clock, partly to finish the repair of an antique Foe-Glass, and partly in the hope of avoiding the worst of the rain, but it doesn't improve and I eventually resign myself to getting wet on the way to the Apparition point.

When I arrive home, slightly damp and exhausted, I’m grateful to see that the lights are already on. I wander through to the kitchen in a haze of thought and almost walk straight into Astoria.

She’s only just got in, too; she’s still wearing her revolting work robes. I lean down to kiss her forehead but she steps sharply away. Only then do I notice her mutinous expression.

She folds her arms across her chest, drawing the bright orange fabric around her. I can see why opponents fear her in negotiation; she looks formidable.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” she asks imperiously.

My stomach seizes up. There are all too many things I ought to tell her. I desperately try to work out which one she means.

“About Pansy?” she elaborates.

_Oh_. The knot in my stomach loosens slightly.

The plan to keep Pansy’s pregnancy from Astoria was never going to succeed in the long term; it had a fairly definite expiry date, after all. Still, I’d hoped to keep it hushed up, at least until I worked out how to break the news. No such luck, apparently.

I open my mouth to grovel, but she cuts me off before I can begin.

“I found out from _your mother_ , of all people!”

There’s no need to ask how my mother came to know Pansy’s news so quickly; the pair of them have been thick as thieves for as long as I can remember. She probably knew before I did, and _of course_ she’d be cruel enough to tell Astoria at the earliest opportunity.

“When did you see my mother?” It’s a pathetic attempt to change the subject, but it’s worth a shot.

“I bumped into her at Flourish & Blotts, I nipped in there at lunch to get a new quill— _but that's not the point!_ ”

Her jaw is tightly clenched and she’s wearing a scowl that would make my late Aunt Bellatrix proud, but moisture pools along the rims of her eyes, threatening to escape and roll down her cheeks.

Time for some damage control. “I only found out last weekend, at her dinner party,” I say, in the apologetic voice I reserve for telling customers I’ve inadvertently broken their priceless heirlooms.

“ _A week?_ You’ve known for a week and you didn't think to tell me?”

“I wasn't sure how to bring it up. I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“And why would I feel uncomfortable, Draco? Because Pansy bloody Parkinson-Nott manages to get herself knocked up by accident while we continue the impossible battle against your non-existent libido?”

I turn away to stare intently at the patterned tiles which line the wall behind the stove.

“You can't keep burying your head in the sand, Draco. We need to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to say,” I hiss.

“But what about me? What if _I_ have something to say?”

I remain stubbornly silent, refusing to look at her. Whatever she has to say, I’m not sure I can bear to hear it.

“How are we supposed to start a family if you can't even bring yourself to touch me, let alone _finish_?”

Her sentence ends on a sob. It’s too much; I finally turn around. The sight of her hits me like a bludger to the stomach. Her usually beautiful face is crumpled, crushed with pain and streaked with mascara, her eyes and nose running freely.

We’ve been skirting around the issue for months – years, really – but it stings like a faceful of Bubotuber Pus to hear her say it out loud. She deserves a proper conversation, for me to tell her the truth, but how could I possibly explain it to her? How can I tell her that our efforts at intimacy feel inherently wrong to me, and there’s nothing she can do about it? That even though she’s a beautiful woman, I have to steel myself in order to touch her naked body?

Sometimes I’m convinced she knows, convinced she notices the way my eyes seek out attractive men, however much I try to restrain them. But if she does, she never mentions it.

“Talk to me, Draco. Please. Tell me how we can make it better.” Begging doesn't suit her: my bright, vivacious wife doesn't beg.

“I can’t do this.”

And like a coward – like a _Malfoy_ – I run. I don’t even stop to put on my coat, just turn and dash for the front door. Astoria follows, imploring me to stay and discuss it like an adult, but I can’t. The walls are closing in on me and I can’t bear it.

I rush out into the torrential rain and run until I’m breathless, until every ragged inhale sears my lungs. Only then, as I stand bent double and soaking wet in the middle of the road, do I think to Apparate. I gather every shred of concentration and focus on the first destination that comes to mind.

_CRACK!_

~*~*~*~

I’m on the tiny porch beside _The Coffee Pot_ before I even register what I’m doing. By the time I catch myself and begin to feel foolish, I’ve already rung the doorbell. I briefly allow myself to hope that Harry hasn’t heard it, but then a light comes on in the corridor.

He answers the door a moment later, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt which is at least two sizes too small. “Draco?”

I open my mouth to try and explain, but words fail me. I stand there, soaked to the skin and shivering, completely lost. I must look terrible because he steps out into the rain, puts an arm around my shoulders, and ushers me inside.

He leads me up a narrow flight of stairs and through the door to his flat.

“Draco?” he repeats when we’re safely in his living room. He sounds worried.

It’s at least another minute before I’m able to speak, and when the words finally come, they’re not the ones I want.

“I can’t do it. I thought I could do it, but I can’t. I don’t know what to do.” My voice is reed thin and an octave too high; I’m practically hysterical. So much for maintaining my dignity.

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand…”

Of course he doesn’t, but his green eyes are full of concern. He grabs his wand from the coffee table and points it towards the door in the far corner, which stands slightly ajar. “ _Accio towel and pyjamas!_ ”

A fluffy white towel shoots across the room, followed by a crumpled bundle of clothing. They land in my lap with a soft _thud_. I stare at Harry in surprise.

“I’m terrible at drying charms, and you’re obviously in no fit state to cast one. Don’t worry, they’re clean,” he says, rolling his eyes at my hesitation.

I pause for a moment longer before deciding that I don’t have the energy to argue. “Thanks. Where’s your bathroom?”

He points to another door.

I gather the clothes and towel into my arms and take them into Harry’s bathroom. It’s scrupulously clean, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see that there’s no indication of it being used by anyone other than Harry; there’s only one toothbrush by the sink, one razor, one bottle of shampoo.

I peel off my wet clothes and dry myself before slipping into Harry’s pyjamas. They’re well-worn, and the soft fabric smells deliciously fresh and familiar – like a less musky version of Harry himself. The trousers are too big, but thankfully they have a drawstring. The t-shirt is another story, though; it fits me like a second skin, so snug I can see the faint ridges of my ribcage in the mirror. Surely he can’t squeeze himself into this? He’s much broader than I am; he’d split it at the seams.

That just leaves my hair, which is plastered to my head, so wet it’s turned a dull shade of yellow. I give it a rough rub over with the towel as I leave the bathroom.

When I bring the towel down from my face, Harry’s staring at me. He looks odd; his lips are slightly parted, his eyes glassy. If truth be told, he almost looks … no, that would be ridiculous.

He recovers with a quick shake of his head and takes the towel from me. “Better?”

“Much,” I nod, though my voice sounds shaky.

He notices and flicks his wand in the direction of the liquor cabinet. A bottle of whisky soars over to us and sets itself down on the coffee table. Two glasses follow; he catches them effortlessly and pours us each a generous measure.

I wrinkle my nose at his choice of liquor. Whisky may be my emergency drink, but it’s not one I typically consume with company. “Don’t you have any gin?”

He smirks. “No, Draco. I do _not_ have any gin. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a mad, sixty-year-old cat lady.”

In any other circumstances his little remark would distract me; we’d probably spend ten minutes criticising each other’s poor taste in alcoholic beverages and bickering over which of us most closely resembles a mad cat lady. Not tonight, though. I take the glass of whisky and knock back its contents, immediately holding it out for a refill.

When Harry’s topped me up, I begin to pace back and forth across the little living room, glass in hand. He leaves me to it for a while, but eventually he gets up, grabs my arm and drags me over to the sofa. His fingertips graze the faded smudge of my Dark Mark, but he doesn't mention it.

“You’re tiring me out,” he says with a weak smile. “Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

I take my place beside him, perching on the very edge of my seat, but I remain silent. I have no idea how to begin – or whether I even want to.

Two drinks later, when the alcohol has worked its way into my bloodstream, dulling my senses and slowing my racing thoughts, he finally manages to prise it out of me.

“Astoria wants a baby,” I sigh, slumping back against the sofa cushions and staring blankly up at the ceiling.

“And you’re not ready?” he guesses.

“Not exactly.” My words are faintly slurred, falling into one another as they tumble from my lips, but it suddenly feels very important that I make him understand. “I’m not sure if I ever will be.”

I see him nod out of the corner of my eye, but he remains silent, inviting me to say more. I suspect he’s learned that little trick from me.

“With everything that happened during the war, I can’t help but wonder if it might be better if my family’s bloodline were to just … die out.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I’ve never told _anyone_ this.

“You might change your mind in time?” he suggests.

I shake my head firmly. “It’s more complicated than that. We’ve been trying to make it happen for … oh, almost two years, now … and it’s been a fucking disaster because I can't … because I’m...” I trail off. I can’t say it.

“Because you're bent,” Harry supplies, matter-of-factly.

The pause that follows is one of the most uncomfortable I’ve ever experienced. I open my mouth to deny it, but the words evaporate on my tongue and I'm left gaping at him. A rush of adrenaline sweeps over me, so strong it makes my vision blur. They say the best course of action when you’re this dizzy is to put your head between your legs, but that seems terribly inappropriate. Instead, I grip my glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn't crack.

“I love her,” I say, wincing at how defensive I sound.

“I know,” he nods. “You love her … but not like that.”

He’s hit the nail on the head and rendered me speechless once again. The sick feeling that's been churning in the pit of my stomach claws its way up to my throat, settling uncomfortably behind my Adam’s apple.

He waits, with more patience than I’d ever have suspected him being capable of.

“No,” I agree, eventually. “Not like that.”

I stare intently down at my empty glass. I can’t look at him. The moment I’ve said the words, I want to take them back – to pluck them from the air, cram them into my mouth and swallow them – but it’s too late.

The warmth of his fingers against the back of my hand takes me by surprise, and I flinch violently. My glass slips through my fingers and lands on the floor with a _clink_. I move my hands, clasping them tightly in my lap, and let him set it to rights. When I finally risk a glance up at him, I'm immediately caught in his intense gaze. He’s eyeing me as he would a wild animal, evidently weighing up the likelihood of me bolting.

“I know the feeling,” he says quietly, never breaking eye contact. “I felt the same way about Ginny.” He pauses, as if debating whether to tell me any more. I remain silent; I’ve already said far too much.

His desire to share eventually outweighs his misgivings. “I loved her to bits; she was one of my best friends. I’d have taken an _Avada Kedavra_ for her. But it wasn’t enough. I felt like I was lying to her – and I was, really. I’d be holding her hand, but my eyes would wander off to stare at some bloke. I couldn’t stop myself. And the sex was just … uncomfortable.” He blushes at the mention of sex; a rich, deep pink flush which settles evenly along his cheekbones. It’s incredibly attractive – nothing like the blotchy redness I’m no doubt sporting at this very moment.

My temper flares at the sight of it and my self-defences kick in, ten minutes too late. “I’d rather you didn't compare your awkward teenage relationship with my eight years of marriage,” I say frostily. I regret it immediately.

He shifts back in his seat, stung. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s fine. It’s just not the same.”

We lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Harry pours us each another drink; the bottle is almost empty now.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asks eventually. I know what it is before the words leave his lips. “Why did you get married?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m an old-fashioned romantic at heart?” I smirk.

“Not for a second.”

I sigh. “Didn't think so.”

He’s leaning towards me again, watching me intently. His pupils are so widely dilated they’ve almost swallowed his green irises. It’s unsettling and captivating all at once.

I stifle the urge to lash out again and take a deep breath. “When I left Hogwarts, I had trouble finding a job. My grades were perfect, but my background … well, you can imagine. Astoria and I were very close – best friends, really – and she came up with the idea of getting married to improve my social standing. Her family were intelligent enough not to get involved in the war, so the name ‘Greengrass’ came through it relatively unscathed.”

He looks confused; his features have settled into that familiar frown, exaggerated slightly by the alcohol. He doesn't speak, so I carry on.

“It worked, to an extent. Not well enough for anyone to employ me, but we managed to get the lease for my shop, on the condition that it was taken out in Astoria’s name. It was intended as a short term measure, until things settled down enough for me to reapply for Unspeakable training, but that wasn't to be. As for the marriage, we came to find that we get along better than most ‘real’ couples, so we decided to make a proper go of it.” I shrug. “That was about seven years ago, and here we are.”

He’s looking at me as if I’m speaking Gobbledegook. “Hang on, you weren't even a couple when you got married?”

I shake my head. “Not in the traditional sense, no. That came afterwards.”

He continues to stare at me. Really, I know he’s drunk, but it’s not that difficult a concept to grasp.

“Isn't that quite a big commitment to make if you're not in love?” he manages eventually.

I have to bite back a laugh at his naivety. “People get married for all sorts of reasons, Harry. And like I said, love came later.”

“But you also said you don't love her _like that_.”

Shit. I did say that. Why did I tell him that?

He frowns. “You can’t stay married to her if you’re gay. It’s not fair on either of you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.” He juts out his jaw like an insolent teenager as he says it.

A bubble of frustration swells in my chest. He doesn’t understand. “No, it really isn’t. I have … _expectations_ … to live up to! Astoria, my parents, they want—”

His temper surges, too; he cuts me off, his voice cool and sharp as the blade of a knife. “But what do _you_ want, Draco?”

_You_ , my mind screams. I drain my glass and set it down on the coffee table. “Whatever makes for an easy life,” I say. The words come out sounding hollow and utterly unconvincing.

Harry looks at me for a long moment, then hauls himself up from the sofa and staggers off through the open door in the corner.

He reappears in the doorway seconds later and throws a patchwork blanket at me.

“Get some sleep. And don’t even think about trying to Apparate – you’re too drunk, you’ll definitely splinch yourself.”

Where does he think I’m going to go at this hour, blind drunk and dressed in his ridiculous pyjamas? I lie down on the sofa and pull the blanket over me. Like the pyjamas, it smells faintly of Harry.

He pauses with his hand on the light switch. “Do you remember Dumbledore’s speech at the end of Fourth Year?” he asks.

I shake my head. Of course I don’t. I didn’t fawn over him, clinging onto every word he said; I’m not a bloody Gryffindor.

“He talked about making the choice between what’s easy and what’s right. There’s always a choice, Draco.”

I want to ask him what he means, but I’m too tired and too drunk, and his sofa is incredibly comfortable.

He flicks the switch, cloaking me in darkness. I shut my eyes and begin to drift off, trying desperately not to think about how awkward things will be in the morning.

~*~*~*~

I wake up alone, face down against the cushions of Harry’s careworn sofa. It’s soft and warm, and the tender beginnings of my hangover nudge gently at my temples, making me all the more reluctant to move. My mouth is dry, my lips cracked. I expect my breath smells like Essence of Murtlap.

I’m dimly aware that I made a fool of myself last night, but I push it to the back of my mind. I’m not ready to think about it.

Eventually I heave myself up off the sofa and look around the room. Even in daylight, Harry’s living room is cosy. None of the furniture matches and the pictures hanging on the walls are skewed at all sorts of angles, but I feel a rush of warmth as I look around. It’s exactly what I’d have expected of Harry.

There’s a flat white sitting on the coffee table, surrounded by the telltale tingle of a warming charm. He’s put it in a Gryffindor-red cup, the bastard.

There’s a note beneath the saucer, written in his trademark messy scrawl:

_Draco,_

_I’m out with Pansy all morning._

_I didn’t want to wake you – you looked like you needed the sleep._

_Harry_

_P.S. Happy birthday! Your presents are in the kitchen.  
P.P.S. There are some hangover potions in the medicine cabinet._

The post-script takes me by surprise; between the blur of last night’s events and this morning’s fuzzy head, I’d genuinely forgotten all about my birthday. I suppose that’s a true marker of getting old.

For a moment I’m tempted to dash straight through to the kitchen – the spoilt brat in me has never been able to resist presents – but then my head gives a particularly nasty throb and I’m forced to reassess my priorities.

I trudge through to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet in search of the promised hangover potion. It takes me a while to find one – they’re hidden at the very back, behind countless bottles of Dreamless Sleep – and by the time I finally unstopper it, my head feels as if it’s been trampled by a herd of Erumpents.

Thankfully Harry doesn’t skimp on the quality of his medical potions; it works beautifully. A cool, fresh sensation washes through my aching skull, sweeping away the pain and clearing my head before spreading down to settle my churning stomach.

I revel in the relief for a few moments, but it’s not enough. My hangover may be gone, but I feel disgusting and almost certainly smell like a brewery. I can’t go home to Astoria like this.

I look around the room and spot the soft white towel from last night, folded neatly over the side of the bath. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.

I take my time in the shower, losing myself in the soothing sensations of warm water flowing over my skin and enjoying the heady scent of Harry’s shampoo. I’m _almost_ tempted to indulge in a wank, but I resist; that would be enormously inappropriate.

When I finally step out of the shower, cloaked in a cloud of steam, my fingertips are slightly wrinkled and I feel far more human. I dry myself off and wrap the towel around my waist; it seems wrong to put Harry’s pyjamas back on, and it’s not as if anyone’s going to see me.

My clothes from last night are hanging from a hook on the back of the door, but they’re horribly crumpled. I curse myself for forgetting my wand in my rush to leave home; if I had it with me, I’d have them pristine in no time at all.

I pad back through to the living room to collect my coffee, then look for the kitchen. It’s not much of a search; Harry’s flat is small and other than his bedroom, there are only two doors I haven’t already tried. The first one leads to a storage cupboard which is packed so tightly I can only assume the contents are held in place by magic. I shut it gently and head for the second door.

Harry’s kitchen is much like his living room: homely and lived-in. I intended to pace myself; to look around properly and perhaps even have some breakfast, but my self-control slips away when I see the parcels on the kitchen table.

There are two of them: a small box and a larger, softer package. The emerald green wrapping paper is creased and dog-eared in places; they look as if they were wrapped in a hurry, or perhaps as if Harry was very excited by the prospect of giving them to me.

I open the small package first. It contains an entire box of my beloved biscotti. I lift off the lid and find that half of them are studded with the usual cherries, but the others are an assortment of entirely different flavours, each one carefully labelled. I choose one at random – cranberry and pistachio – dip it into my coffee, and take a bite. I make a mental note to branch out more often; it’s every bit as delicious as the cherry-flavoured ones.

The second parcel is unexpectedly heavy in my hands, and has the telltale feel of fabric. My stomach twists with suspicion. Surely he hasn’t…? I tear the paper and laugh out loud. He bloody has. He’s bought me a pair of jeans.

I unfold them and hold them out in front of me. They’re the same brand as the ones Harry wears – I recognise the logo on the back pocket – but it seems he’s chosen me a smarter pair without holes in the knees. The denim is a very dark blue, almost black, and stiff against my fingers.

If Harry was here, I’d make a show of refusing to try them on. I’d tell him to return them, that I wouldn’t be caught dead in something so slovenly, and ask him what on earth he was thinking. I’d eventually give in, of course. He isn’t here though, so there’s no point in pretending I don’t want to see how they look on me.

I let the towel fall to the floor and step into the jeans, sliding them up my thighs and over my bare arse. I’m not keen on going commando – it seems like an accident waiting to happen, if you ask me – but I don’t have a great deal of choice today. I’m hardly going to wear yesterday’s boxers beneath my birthday present. I carefully fasten them and look down in wonder. They certainly feel like a good fit.

I head back through to the living room in search of a mirror. The bathroom mirror is too high, but perhaps there's a full-length one in Harry's bedroom…

As I wander through the flat, I can’t help but notice how good the denim feels against my skin; these jeans are more comfortable than any pair of trousers I’ve ever owned. I cross the threshold of Harry’s bedroom and am pleased to see a full-length mirror in the far corner.

I cross the room and stand before it, looking my reflection up and down. The jeans fit me perfectly; they’re tight without looking lewd, and they emphasise my long legs nicely. I turn and look back over my shoulder: my arse looks fucking fantastic. I’m taken aback by how much I love them, and I can’t quite believe that Harry chose them – _Harry _, whose personal dress sense is an unmitigated disaster, chose something so smart and sexy for me.__

__Several minutes pass before I manage to tear my eyes away from them. When I finally do, I turn in a slow circle, taking in every detail of Harry’s bedroom. The bed is huge and looks extremely comfortable, though it seems Harry made it in a rush this morning; the pillows are crooked and the duvet has been thrown haphazardly across the mattress. There’s a huge picture of a castle hung above the headboard, and with a jolt I realise that it’s Hogwarts._ _

__The alarm clock on the bedside table declares the time to be half past ten. By my calculations, Harry won't be back for a while._ _

__A wicked idea strikes me: this is the perfect opportunity to have a proper look around the flat. I ignore the twinge of guilt that stirs in the back of my mind: I know perfectly well that snooping is horribly unethical, but it’s not as if I’ve ever claimed to have perfect morals, and this could be the only chance I get._ _

I move from room to room, picking things up and opening drawers as I go. I examine every photograph I encounter, both Wizarding and Muggle, in search of past and present lovers, unfamiliar friends, or distant family members. I don’t find much; the pictures are almost all of his former school friends, with the occasional Muggle snapshot of him with his staff from _The Coffee Pot_. 

__A quick sweep of the kitchen reveals a surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator, but the living room contains nothing unexpected at all. Harry’s an open book, and his flat is much the same. Only when I return to the bedroom do things take an interesting turn._ _

__The wardrobe contains, along with Harry’s self-imposed uniform of threadbare t-shirts and jeans, some very nice shirts, a smart dinner jacket, and, most interestingly of all, no fewer than three sets of formal dress robes. Three sets seems like overkill for someone who’s barely set foot in Wizarding London for half a decade, even by my standards._ _

__There are a few other surprises – the bookshelf on the back wall contains several of my favourite novels, and a quick peek under the bed reveals a couple of dirty magazines which clearly cater to the homosexual viewer – but of all the things I find during the course of my illicit tour of the flat, it’s the item at the very back of Harry’s bedside drawer which stops me short._ _

__In months to come, if I ever wonder where my interest in Harry went too far, where the point of no return was, the answer is surely here: the day I found out he keeps a bottle of lube in his bedside drawer. I pick it up to take a closer look. I’m intoxicated by the thought of it; my mind clamours to know whether he uses it on other men or – my cock stirs beneath the fabric of my jeans – himself. Merlin._ _

__I would never have guessed that I’d begin my thirtieth birthday standing in Harry Potter’s bedroom, slack-jawed and shirtless, clutching a half-used bottle of lubricant. It’s funny how things turn out; whether amusing or peculiar, I’m not entirely sure. Both, perhaps._ _

__I flip open the lid and squeeze the sides of the bottle gently. A bead of clear liquid appears at the opening. I swipe it away with my forefinger, entranced._ _

__The silky sensation brings me back to my senses. I hastily wipe my finger on the duvet, return the bottle to its place and slam the drawer shut, far harder than is necessary._ _

__A flash of movement catches my eye as I do so, and I turn to face my own reflection in his full-length mirror. The jeans really do look brilliant on me._ _

__I walk tentatively over to the mirror, look myself square in the eye and take a deep breath. “You’re gay. Queer. Bent. You fucking idiot.”_ _

__The stark syllables feel odd on my lips; unfamiliar, uncomfortable … but honest. I wonder how long they’ve been sitting on the tip of my tongue. It’s not at all funny, but I laugh at my reflection; a weak, breathless exhale. Then my eyes sting, my throat closes up, and a harsh sob escapes me. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, taking me by surprise. I’m not one for crying, usually._ _

__On the one hand, this is nothing new; if I’m really honest with myself, I’ve known it since my early teens. Despite this, I’ve never said the words out loud before. It seems that knowing it and vocalising it are very different._ _

__It takes me almost ten minutes to compose myself, and even then I feel as though I could crack again at any moment._ _

__Harry’s flat suddenly feels oppressive. I return to the bathroom, pull on my creased white shirt and fold the rest of my clothes into a neat bundle._ _

__The thought of returning home is almost unbearable in light of the morning’s events, but midday is rapidly approaching and I can’t put it off any longer._ _

__I slink down the stairs in my brand new jeans and yesterday’s crumpled shirt, and head to the front door. I find it firmly warded. If I had my wand and it were anyone else’s house, I’d try to break the wards, but I’m mindful that Harry trained as an Auror. I expect his security has a few nasty twists._ _

__With great reluctance, I edge through the door to my left instead. It brings me out behind the counter of _The Coffee Pot_. Bright sunlight pours through the big front windows. The café is brimming with people, and I know exactly how this looks._ _

__Matilda grins salaciously as I walk past. She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off._ _

__“Don’t start,” I growl. I stride purposefully across the café and through the open front door, blinking and squinting from the shock of the sunlight._ _


	3. Summer into Autumn

## Summer into Autumn

Harry and I don’t talk about my overnight stay. It’s not for lack of trying on his part, but I deliberately change the subject every time he alludes to it until he gets the message. It’s one thing to foolishly spill your secrets whilst blind drunk, but quite another to bring them up in the cold light of day.

Instead, we talk about other things; old acquaintances, Quidditch, the ridiculous artefacts which pass through my shop.

It’s only a short term strategy. Despite our best efforts to avoid the subject of homosexuality, it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid as Harry’s charity plans begin to take shape. He’s always careful not to use the word “gay” around me, though, and for that I’m grateful.

He proudly unveils the charity’s logo to me over coffee one morning towards the end of June. It’s a simple but pleasing image of a rainbow shooting from the tip of a wand. Rainbows are a popular Muggle symbol for LGBT pride, Harry explains. He tells me about the American origins of the rainbow flag, and how each colour was assigned a specific meaning. By the time he’s finished educating me, I can’t look at the logo without a lump forming in my throat.

From that day on, I see rainbows everywhere.

They’re all over Harry’s charity documents, for a start, and he starts to wear a little rainbow pin-badge on the lapel of his jacket. It’s not just when I’m with Harry, though: I start to spot rainbows on strangers’ t-shirts, brightly striped flags hanging in the windows of shops and bars, and there’s even a rainbow spray-painted onto the brick wall of an alleyway I pass through every morning on my way to work. Once I spot it, I can’t believe I never noticed it before.

The logo is just the start.

“I’ve settled on a name,” Harry grins when I turn up the following week. He looks fit to burst with excitement.

“About time! What have you gone for?” I’m leaning forward in my seat, smiling already; his enthusiasm is infectious.

“ _Ascendio_.”

The word raises goosebumps on my forearms. I’m struck with an unbearably strong desire to hug him. If it weren’t for the coffee table between us, I’m not sure I’d have been able to resist. I will my voice to remain steady, to mask the extent of its impact on me.

“It’s brilliant. I like the idea of an ascent – very positive.”

His smile widens. “That’s exactly what I’m going for. The purposes of the charity are to provide young homosexual people with a platform to be themselves, and give them a lift – whether that’s support, somewhere to stay, or whatever else – if they need one. _Ascendio_ seemed like a good fit.”

“It’s a perfect fit. Plus, it’s right at the beginning of the alphabet, so it puts you ahead of all of the other, inferior charities on the Ministry Register.”

“Only you would turn the naming of a charity into a competition,” he laughs, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

I smirk and take a sip of my flat white. “I’m a Slytherin. Analysing ways to get the upper hand is what we do.”

Harry’s updates on the development of _Ascendio_ rapidly become one of the highlights of my week. They never fail to put a smile on my face – even the horrible morning where I find yet another of Astoria’s negative pregnancy tests by the bathroom sink doesn’t seem so bad after spending an hour reviewing CVs for potential Centre Managers with Harry.

As the weeks go by, Pansy taps into her extensive list of contacts and puts him in contact with all sorts of people – from fundraising experts to lawyers, to the swathes of celebrities held within Parkinson Zabini’s client book. By mid-July, Harry and his team have raised enough money from private donors to secure premises in both London and Hogsmeade.

He shows me a floorplan of the London building while I finish off my biscotti. It looks remarkable even as a two-dimensional drawing, and the location is excellent – less than two-hundred yards from the main entrance to Diagon Alley.

He carefully folds up the floorplan as I drain the last of my coffee.

“Do you have anything exciting planned for the weekend?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve taken to asking him every week. I tell myself I’m just being polite; that it has nothing to do with me checking to see if he’s dating anyone.

“I’m going to the football with Theo, actually.”

“Theo? _My_ Theo?” I splutter.

He laughs incredulously. “ _Your_ Theo? God, you're still a spoilt eleven-year-old at heart, aren't you?”

I put on my haughtiest tone of voice. “I hardly see what that has to do with the matter at hand.”

He shudders. “Ugh, you sound disgustingly posh when you speak like that. But yeah, _your_ Theo. He’s got us a pair of tickets for the Chelsea match. It’s only a friendly, but it’ll be good fun.”

I can’t believe Harry’s managed to strike up a friendship with Theo, let alone reach the point where Theo’s willing to make weekend plans with him. Seeing Theo in a social context without Pansy is about as rare as catching a glimpse of a unicorn.

“Must you corrupt _all_ of my friends?” I groan.

“Must you be such a drama queen?” he quips, in a horrible, nasal impression of my voice.

I fix him with a withering look, the one Astoria refers to as my ‘Medusa face’, but it’s no use: he doesn’t even flinch. We’ve spent too much time together; he’s become accustomed to even my very meanest of expressions.

“I meant to ask, by the way. Do you fancy coming round to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner on Wednesday night? Ron’s cooking a roast chicken.”

My eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. “Dinner with Granger and the Weasel? Why on earth would they want _me_ there?”

Harry frowns at my phrasing, but decides to let it go.

“Hermione’s curious about the bloke who’s helping me to end my so-called ‘self-imposed exile’, and I think Ron just wants to make sure you’re not going to kill me.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Besides, we’re always hanging out with your friends. It’s about time you met mine properly.”

I fight the urge to shudder. “Fine, but only on the condition that I can leave immediately if Weasley calls me ‘Ferret Face’.”

“That sounds reasonable,” he concedes.

“Good. I’ll be off, then.” I get to my feet with a grimace. “The owner of that locked jewellery box is coming to pick it up this afternoon and I still haven’t a clue how to open it.”

I edge out of the narrow gap between my armchair and the coffee table.

“Oh, and Harry?”

He looks at me over the rim of his cup.

“I _could_ kill you, you know. Easily.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, if snarky comments counted as a weapon.”

“They do count,” I sniff. “I’ll have you know that words are the ultimate weapon, you uncultured heathen.”

He performs a shooing motion with his right hand. “Whatever, Draco. See you on Wednesday.”

I leave the café as I always do: with a smile on my face, feeling much better than when I went in.

~*~*~*~

I meet Harry outside his flat on Wednesday evening. We Apparate to the Granger-Weasley household, partly due to Harry’s Muggle flat lacking a Floo connection, and partly because our hosts are apparently parents, and consequently keep a grate on the fireplace most of the time.

Weasley answers the door wearing a ludicrous pink apron emblazoned with ‘ _Kiss the cook_ ’. He greets Harry warmly, and even manages an “Alright, Malfoy?” for me.

He leads us through to the living room, where we’re greeted by a view of Granger’s arse. She’s on her hands and knees in front of the fireplace, head fully immersed in the bright green flames.

“—and make sure you let _her_ read the bedtime story. Don't try to read it out to her, she hates that. Oh, and if she won't settle down to sleep, a glass of warm milk usually does the trick.”

A soothing voice floats through the grate. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine, Hermione. I have a great idea for game of ‘ _Catch the Wrackspurt_ ’ that’ll wear her out in no time. Enjoy your evening!”

Granger removes her head from the fireplace and climbs to her feet, pink-faced and slightly sweaty. She rushes over to give Harry a hug, then steps back and looks at me.

“Draco,” she says, in an odd, formal tone.

“Hermione.” It feels almost as strange to address her by her first name as it is to hear her use mine.

I pass her the bottle of wine I insisted on bringing along. Harry tried to convince me not to – apparently it’s “too formal” a gesture for a casual dinner – but he was missing the point entirely. By bringing wine, I’m guaranteeing that even if the rest of the evening is a disaster, at least I'll have something decent to drink. Besides, Granger seems happy enough to take it from me.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, looking down at the label with a smile.

Weasley thankfully cuts the awkward greetings short by announcing that dinner is ready.

We file through to the kitchen and take our seats. It really is an informal meal – there’s no tablecloth and the cutlery has been dumped unceremoniously in a heap at the centre of the table – but the food smells delicious.

It’s a roast chicken, but it’s unlike any I’ve ever made. The chicken is delicately spiced and served with a side of Bombay potatoes.

As we tuck in, Granger fills Harry in on the latest escapades of Rose, who sounds very much like a replica of Granger herself, only in the package of a four-year-old redhead. I listen along for a while, then, when a suitable pause elapses, I pick up the conversation.

“What spices did you use on the chicken?” I ask Weasley. “I always end up using rosemary or thyme, but this is much more interesting.”

His mouth actually drops open. “Are you trying to tell us that _you_ cook?”

Harry gives me a warning look, but I can’t help it. I arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise it was an exclusive activity.”

Weasley eyes me cautiously, trying to work out whether I’m joking. “It’s a mix of garam masala, turmeric and ground cumin. I can give you the recipe if you’d like. I just assumed you’d have House-elves to do your cooking,” he adds, ignoring Granger’s sharp dig at his ribs.

I smirk and help myself to some more potatoes. “You’re looking at the one and only House-elf of the Greengrass-Malfoy household. Astoria thinks the concept of their enslavement is barbaric. She won’t have one. In fact, she’s forever trying to trick my parents into setting their Elves free.”

Granger looks positively delighted and immediately launches into a passionate speech about her vision for a world in which House-elves are granted rights on par with humans. It’s a preposterous idea – I dread to think how offended my parents’ Elves would be if we suggested it to them – but I nod along as politely as I can, and suggest that she and Astoria would get along.

Weasley, meanwhile, looks increasingly embarrassed. When Granger pauses to pour herself some more gravy, he jumps in with a desperate attempt to change the subject, and I’m all too happy to oblige.

“What did you make of the Tornadoes match at the weekend?” he asks. “A score of 220 to 210 … I can’t remember the last time a league match was so close.”

“As a matter of fact, I was there,” I say, fighting a grin at the look of envy that crosses his face. “It was the best match I’ve seen in years. I don’t think my arse touched my seat for single second.”

“Are you a Tornadoes supporter, then?”

“Oh, no. I follow the Magpies,” I say. I can feel Harry’s eyes on me, and my cheeks heat as I remember Pansy’s snide little quip back when he first came to dinner at her house, all those months ago. “Astoria got the tickets from a work contact.”

Weasley begins to moan about the lack of hospitality opportunities for the Auror Office, but I manage to perk him up with the suggestion that I’ll pass the message on to Astoria and see if she can help.

“Do you still fly, Malfoy?” Weasley asks as we make a start on dessert. Granger glares at him for addressing me by my surname, but he pretends not to notice.

“No, not since school, actually,” I say, carefully keeping my tone light.

He grimaces. “Oh god, you’re as bad as Harry. I can’t remember the last time I saw him on a broom.”

“Oh?”

I turn to look at Harry, eyebrows raised, but he chooses that moment to interrupt with a series of loud and rather enthusiastic compliments about the cheesecake.

It’s an incredibly poor attempt to change the subject, but his friends go along with it willingly enough, so I’m forced to endure the several minutes of dessert-based discussion which follow.

When we’ve finally all agreed that the key to a good cheesecake is high quality butter, Granger seizes the opportunity to ask the question she’s clearly been dying to put to me since my arrival.

“Anyway, what we—oh, okay, _I_ —really wanted to know, was what it is you said to change Harry’s mind about re-joining Wizarding society.”

I blink at her, perplexed. “I wasn't aware that I was a major influence on his decision.”

“You weren't,” Harry says quickly, blushing furiously. “Well. Our chat about it was _a_ factor, but one of many.”

“I had no idea you found me so convincing,” I smirk, watching as his cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink. My chest tightens unexpectedly at the sight of it.

“Shut up, Draco,” he mumbles.

In an apparent bid to move the conversation on, Harry begins to tell the full story of how our unlikely friendship came about. I can't resist chipping in; we constantly speak over one another and jump in to correct each other’s mistakes, becoming increasingly animated and teasing each other mercilessly.

Once or twice I catch Granger looking from Harry to me with a slight frown on her face, as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle. It makes me uncomfortable, though I’m not quite sure why.

“...and here we are!” Harry finishes, flashing me breathless grin before turning back to Weasley, who’s staring at us, slowly shaking his head. “What?”

Weasley wrinkles his nose. “It’s just so weird to see you two being friendly.”

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far,” I say, my voice sly. “Harry’s still the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”

“And likewise!” Harry agrees, leaning in to jab me with his elbow.

I look beseechingly at Weasley and Granger. “See? He’s barbaric. Is he this violent with everyone?”

Granger looks uncharacteristically baffled. “No, he isn't. It must just be you.”

She gets to her feet and uses her wand to send our plates over to the sink. Harry and Weasley stand, too, so I follow suit.

Apparently Harry’s friends aren’t the type to indulge in after-dinner drinks on a weeknight, so we thank them profusely for the lovely meal and agree that we should do this again, before heading outside into the late evening sunshine.

All in all, I think the evening has gone as well as could have been expected. In fact, it’s put me in quite a good mood – not least because Weasley and I managed to navigate the entire meal without the terms ‘Weasel’ or ‘Ferret Face’ coming up once.

When Harry holds out his arm, I let him Side-Along me back to the narrow alleyway round the corner from his flat, even though it would have made far more sense for me to head directly home.

We stroll slowly down the pavement, moaning about how full we are, and how cruel Weasley was, practically force-feeding us the last of the Bombay potatoes.

When we reach Harry’s front door, he stops and looks at me intently, his expression unreadable.

“Fancy a nightcap?” he asks.

I shrug. “Why not?”

I can think of a thousand reasons why not, but with Harry standing so close I can smell the familiar musk of his aftershave, none of them seem particularly important.

“After you,” he says, stepping back to usher me through the doorway.

I lead the way up the stairs and through to Harry’s living room. It’s slightly stuffy and bathed in faint warm light from the setting sun.

Harry’s right behind me. As soon as he’s inside, he toes off his trainers without untying them and quickly sheds his socks. My eyes are automatically drawn to his toes; I’ve never seen his feet before. He catches me staring, so I hastily school my features into an expression of disdain and mutter the word “slovenly” under my breath.

He grins and heads over to the window, throwing it wide open to let in a whisper of summer breeze, then disappears into the kitchen to sort the drinks out.

I make myself comfortable on his well-worn sofa, trying not to think about the last time I sat on it. The clinking and pouring sounds which float through from the kitchen are oddly soothing.

He returns a few minutes later with a tumbler in each hand; neat whiskey for him, gin on the rocks for me. It’s impressive enough that he remembered my beverage of choice, let alone picked up a bottle of it, but he’s gone a step further and garnished my drink with a twist of lime.

“Well, well,” I smirk as he passes me my glass, “perhaps we’ll make a gentleman of you, yet.”

“I think that’s pushing it a bit,” he laughs as he collapses onto the sofa beside me. After a moment’s pause he turns ninety degrees in his seat and puts his bare feet in my lap.

“They liked you – especially Hermione,” he says, before I can ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“Of course they liked me,” I scoff. “I’m charming.”

He reaches over with his free hand to give my shoulder a playful shove. “You’re such a dick.”

I pretend to dust off my shirt where he touched it. “Tsk, so rude. I really don’t know why I continue to spend time with you. Perhaps I should just commandeer your friends instead, like you’ve done with mine. I could meet up with Granger for my Friday coffees and go to the Quidditch with Weasley.”

“Mmm, there are a couple of flaws in that plan, of course,” he muses. “Hermione makes the worst coffee in the world, and Ron would demand that you become a Cannons supporter.”

I grimace. “Fair enough. I suppose I’m stuck with you, then.”

“You are indeed.”

He holds out his glass and I touch mine to it in a silent toast before taking a sip of my drink. It’s beautifully bitter and chilled to perfection.

“So, what made you give up flying?” he asks.

I flinch. “Merlin, straight in there with the personal questions. Can't you just let a man enjoy his gin in peace?”

“Nope.” He watches me closely, his expression deadly serious, and I realise my avoidance tactics aren't going to work tonight.

“That night in the Room of Requirement, with the Fiendfyre,” I murmur. “I haven’t so much as touched a broom since.”

I expect him to look shocked, to tell me it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard, but he just nods sympathetically. “Do you miss it?”

I tilt my glass from side to side, watching the ice cubes bob back and forth. “Yes. Enormously.”

I think about it every time I watch the Quidditch, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. How could I not miss flying? There’s no feeling remotely like it; that visceral thrill as you shoot through the sky, dipping and diving, with nothing more than thin air beneath your feet.

“What about you?” I ask. “When did you last fly?”

He lets his head fall back against the arm of the sofa as he thinks about it. “I’m not sure, exactly,” he says eventually. “It was around the time I moved out here.”

“Why?”

He looks at me for a long time, then sighs. “I suppose it didn’t feel right to turn my back on the difficult stuff but still get to enjoy the best parts of Wizarding life.”

I can’t conceal my frown. “So you stopped flying to punish yourself? That’s ridiculous.”

A crease appears between his eyebrows. “Yeah, it is a bit, when you put it like that.”

I want to shake him. “A bit? It’s ludicrous, and you know it.”

He smiles, but stops short of agreeing with me.

We each take a long sip of our drinks, then Harry suddenly sits up straighter.

“Maybe we should go flying together,” he blurts out, green eyes gleaming with excitement.

My chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought of it. I shake my head. “That’s a terrible idea.”

He shrugs. “It was just a thought. It’s okay though, I get it: you’re worried because you know I’m a much better flier than you.”

“Piss off, Potter. I could beat you to a Snitch blindfolded.” It’s a lie and he knows it. I’ve never once beaten him in a Quidditch match.

He rolls his eyes. “Hey, do you remember the Cup final when we were in Third Year? The one with all the penalties?”

Of course I remember it. It was the dirtiest match I’ve ever played, and my teammates wouldn’t speak to me for weeks afterwards. We went into that match with a two-hundred point lead, and still lost the Quidditch Cup thanks to Potter beating me to the Snitch.

“Wasn’t that the one where one of the Weasley twins threw his bat at Marcus’s head?”

He snorts with laughter. “Yes! And then your Beaters hit Wood with a double bludger to the stomach. God, I was sure we were going to lose that game.”

“No such luck,” I sniff. It’s ridiculous to still be sore about something that happened so long ago, but I can’t help it: it’s _Quidditch_. There was a time when nothing in the world mattered to me more than beating Harry Potter to the Snitch, and consistently failing to do so was the ultimate humiliation for my melodramatic teenage self.

Harry’s enthusiasm is infectious, though, and I soon forget all feelings of negativity as he draws me further down the rabbit-hole of our school Quidditch careers. Before I know it, we’re bickering over the line-ups of our Hogwarts dream teams. Every so often he gets up to refill our glasses, but he always returns to the same position, with his heels digging into my thighs. Somewhere between drinks three and four I allow myself to slump back against the cushions and rest my forearms on his shins. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

Midway through a story about Angelina Johnson’s brutal training drills, he trails off with a heavy sigh. “I miss how easy it was back then. You know, back when losing a Quidditch match was the worst thing that could happen. Before everything got complicated.”

An odd silence falls over us as we sink into our own memories of the awful years that followed. I try to avoid thinking about that period of my life wherever possible, but with Harry beside me and a glass of crisp, cool gin in my hand, it isn’t quite so painful.

The faint chime of his kitchen clock eventually brings me out of my reverie. “What time is it?” I ask.

“No idea.”

He flicks his fingers, casting a wandless _Tempus_ which reveals it to be eleven o’clock. I’ve never seen anyone perform wandless magic as easily as Harry. He throws spells around like it’s the easiest thing in the world. If I were to try it, I’d end up straining and grimacing like an idiot, and the time would probably be wrong.

He’s looking at me oddly, and I realise I’ve been staring at him.

I clear my throat. “I should be getting back.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says, looking disappointed.

He makes no effort to move, so I take hold of his legs and lift them from my lap. The hem of his jeans rides up as I do so and my fingers brush against his bare ankle. His skin is warm and the delicate ridge of bone feels startlingly intimate in my hand.

A stab of arousal catches me off-guard, sharp as a dagger in the pit of my stomach. My heart leaps up into my throat and I pull my hands away as if I’ve been burned. His feet fall to the floor with a _thunk_ , but his eyes don’t leave my face.

“Draco—?”

I stand up hurriedly and make a dash for the living room door.

“I’ll let myself out. Night, Potter.” Somehow, reverting to the use of his last name makes me feel a bit better. It creates an illusion of distance, and Merlin knows I desperately need to put some space between us right now.

~*~*~*~

My attempt to put space between myself and Harry fails abysmally.

We lose track of time during the following Friday’s coffee break, spending over two hours chatting, and when I get up to leave, he pulls me in for a hug which I almost reciprocate.

His birthday falls barely a week later, on the Saturday. I didn’t trust him to have the self-restraint not to open his present early, so I left it with Matilda with the strict instruction to leave it outside the door to his flat on the morning of the thirty-first.

I know he’ll love it. I was stuck as to what to give him, at first, but then I realised he’d already laid the blueprint. He moans that I dress too smartly, and bought me some jeans. I’m forever chiding him for dressing like a slob, so what better to get him than a really smart, tailored shirt? The colour was an easy choice, too, though I’m sure he’ll mock me for it: no one on earth wears dark green as well as Harry Potter.

I’m almost tempted to visit him, to wish him a happy birthday in person, but I expect he’ll be out. He didn’t have any plans when I asked him about it last week, but Granger and Weasley will almost certainly have arranged some kind of surprise. I’m not sure I want to gatecrash a Golden Trio event so soon after that casual dinner, so I push the idea from my mind, enjoy a leisurely breakfast with Astoria and head to the shop.

Work has been unusually busy recently, so I take the opportunity to catch up on some of the more minor repairs which have been racking up: a whole box of jinxed quills, a faulty Wizarding Wireless, a couple of clocks.

The clocks remind me of the first time Harry paid a visit to my shop, and the adjustments I made to his pocketwatch. He’s been back countless times since: he returned the following week with samples of Granger and Weasley’s magic, so I could add them to it. As I work, I idly wonder whether he uses the watch, and if so, whether he pays much attention to my hand.

Astoria’s screech owl, Mercury, arrives midway through the afternoon. He taps against the shop windows, trilling relentlessly until I’m eventually forced to put down my wand and let him in. He’s carrying a short note:

_Make sure you get out on time tonight. ~ A._

I keep a firm hold on the little owl – he’s terrible for disappearing as soon as he’s delivered a message – as I scrabble around for a quill that won’t set my fingers on fire and write a single-word response:

_Why?_

Frustratingly, Mercury doesn’t return, leaving my question unanswered. Curiosity burns in the back of my mind, distracting me to the point where I can’t get anything done. At five o’clock, I concede defeat. I close the shop early and rush through the crowds of shoppers to the Apparition point.

When I arrive home, slightly flustered, Astoria answers the door at record speed. “Oh good, you’re back.”

I plant a cursory kiss on her forehead. “What’s going on?”

A wry smile creeps across her face. “You have a visitor,” she says.

She steps aside to reveal the birthday boy himself, looking as scruffy as I’ve ever seen him in his tattiest jeans and a faded burgundy t-shirt emblazoned with the Gryffindor lion. My heart stutters in my chest at the sight of him; I hadn’t even dared to hope the message had anything to do with Harry.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to conceal my grin.

He shrugs in that easy, unguarded manner I’ve come to associate with him and no one else. “I fancied spending some time with a friend on my birthday.”

His casual use of the word “friend” still trips me every time. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to hearing it.

“What do you want to do?”

“I have something special planned for us, actually.” He looks around the room as he says it, avoiding my eye.

“Okay…” I wait for him to elaborate. I hope it’s not a party; I much prefer the prospect of having him to myself.

His tone turns pleading. “You’ll have to promise not to kill me. It’s my birthday, after all.”

I stare at him imploringly, suddenly worried. “Spit it out, Potter.”

“I've arranged for us to use the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch for the evening.”

Horror and excitement wash over me in equal measure, rooting me to the spot. I should have known he’d do something like this. I want to refuse, to tell him that I don’t want to fly ever again, but he’d see straight through the lie.

“How did you manage that?” I ask, after a great deal of gaping.

He has the grace to look abashed. “There are some perks to being Harry Potter.”

“Typical celebrity, demanding special treatment,” I tease.

He rolls his eyes. “Typical Draco, making snarky comments even though it’s my birthday, more like. So you’ll come flying with me?”

How could I possibly refuse when he’s looking at me like that? “Fine,” I concede. “But only because it’s your birthday.”

His answering grin is so bright it practically lights up the hallway.

“Brilliant. Get changed and grab your broom.”

“What makes you so sure that I even still own a broom?” I ask.

“He checked with me and I told him,” Astoria interrupts with a smirk, surprising me. I’d almost forgotten she was still in the room.

I look from Harry to Astoria, taking in their identical smug expressions, and in that moment I strongly regret ever introducing them.

“You two will be the death of me,” I mutter. “Give me ten minutes.”

~*~*~*~

When I’ve changed into more appropriate attire, we Apparate to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds with our old brooms in hand. There’s nobody around to let us in, but Harry simply takes out his wand and taps it against the wrought iron gate. It immediately melts away, enabling us to pass through, then reappears when we’re safely inside.

We stroll down through the grounds in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, heading down the hill to follow the shoreline of the lake. It’s a beautiful balmy evening and the sky is a rich, clear blue. The last of the summer sunlight pools on every surface, bathing everything it touches in a buttery yellow glaze.

Everyone used to rave about how festive Hogwarts looked in the snow, but I’ve always loved the grounds during the summertime, when they’re bursting with life and colour. I mention as much to Harry, but he just rolls his eyes and calls me a ponce. I wouldn't expect him to understand; he’s not exactly the reflective type.

I look back over my shoulder at the castle. I’ve not been here for years. It’ll be vacant at this time of year, with the exception of the resident ghosts, but it still stirs up an unsettling blend of feelings. The warm buzz of nostalgia mixes awkwardly with pangs of shame and regret, and I’m not sure how to process it. From the look Harry gives me, it must show on my face.

“You alright?”

“Yes.”

I cast about for something lighthearted to say, but he beats me to it.

“Thanks for the shirt, by the way. It’s perfect … even if it is the most stereotypically Slytherin gift I’ve ever received.”

“Of course it’s perfect,” I scoff. “I have excellent taste.”

Harry smiles. “You do. It fits me better than just about anything else I own.”

I smirk. “Much like the jeans you got me. Perhaps we should dress each other more often.”

The implication of my comment hits home as I take in Harry's stunned expression – eyes wide, mouth forming a perfect ‘ _o_ ’. Heat floods my cheeks and I look away, my whole body fizzing with embarrassment.

An awkward silence threatens to fall, but thankfully Harry starts babbling about his Firebolt, and doesn’t stop until we reach the edge of the Quidditch pitch.

My stomach twists into a tight knot when we step out onto the neatly mown grass. For a moment, I feel as though I might be sick. Though the stands are empty, I'm as nervous as I was before my very first Quidditch match. My palm is clammy against the polished handle of my broom.

I look over at Harry to find him _smirking_ at me. That’s supposed to be _my_ trademark expression. It looks ridiculous on him; his eyes are too sincere, and I'm sure I can see a hint of trepidation lurking behind the lenses of his glasses. The thought that he might be just as nervous as I am helps enormously.

“Scared, Malfoy?”

“You wish,” I scoff, slinging my leg over my Nimbus 2001. My hamstring twinges in protest; apparently I haven't made it through the last twelve years completely intact. My fingers settle into the well-worn grooves I created through years of flying. My hands are a little larger than the last time I used the broom – in fact, I’m almost too tall for it. If I were to buy another one, I’d have to get a longer handle. This was a dangerous idea; I haven’t even left the ground yet and I’m already thinking about buying a new broom.

Harry flashes me a bright grin and takes off without warning. I have no choice but to follow. I can't very well let him win, can I?

I brace myself – the only way to do this is to do it quickly, like using the Floo for the first time – and kick off the ground, hard. I leave my stomach on the floor and feel my heart leap up into my throat as I follow Harry up into the sky.

And just like that, we’re flying.

The onslaught of dark memories I’ve been dreading never comes. In fact, my head feels gloriously clear, leaving me free to revel in the blissful feeling of the warm air whipping at my cheeks, tearing through my hair and grazing my knuckles. I grip my broom tightly, marvelling at how neatly it responds to the lightest of touches.

It’s utterly exhilarating. I can't fathom how I’ve survived so long without it.

We don’t dare release a Snitch; we’re so out of practice we’d probably struggle to catch it. Instead, we race laps around the pitch, flattening ourselves against our brooms to minimise resistance, always neck and neck until the very last moment.

Twice he jostles me in his bid to win, almost knocking me clean out of the air.

“Blatching, Potter?” I shout. “You always did play dirty!”

“Coming from you, Malfoy?” he roars.

I wonder how we must look; two grown men racing around on our antiquated brooms, our flying clumsy from lack of practice.

When we finally come back down to earth, the sky is burning red, ablaze with the most magnificent sunset, and every muscle in my body aches from the most strenuous exercise I've engaged in since … well, I really can't remember. The sharpest ache comes from my cheeks, and I realise I'm grinning like an imbecilic Hufflepuff. I force my smile down a few notches in an effort to look less crazed. I can’t remember the last time I felt so happy, and from the look on Harry’s face, he seems to feel much the same way.

We sling our brooms over our shoulders and stumble up the hill in the direction of the castle’s front gates. We’re moving in that heavy manner so typical of having spent an extended period battling against gravity; for half an hour or so, walking will feel less natural than flying.

Harry throws his arm around me and pulls me against his side in a clumsy hug. His body is warm and firm, and he smells unashamedly masculine; sweat and cinnamon and something else I can’t quite describe.

The heady scent mingles with the euphoria of flying and I temporarily take leave of my senses. My reflexes take over and, without stopping to think, I lean in and kiss his forehead, pressing my lips against the raised ridge of his scar.

He pulls back immediately, green eyes wide as saucers. My stomach plummets.

I try desperately to think of something to do, something to say, and come up short. I stare at him in horror. What could I say? It wasn’t a friendly kiss – and besides, I’m categorically not a kisser. Or a hugger for that matter … except where Harry's involved. He’s always the exception.

Our brooms fall to the ground and we stand stock still, in freefall, for what feels like an eternity.

Ever the Gryffindor, Harry breaks the stalemate. He pulls me towards him with a strength that takes my breath away, and this _definitely_ isn't a friendly kiss. It’s raw and hard and fucking exquisite, all tongue and teeth and warm saliva. His stubble drags across my face, scratching my cheeks and my upper lip.

My traitorous body responds with a fire I didn’t know I had in me. My hands are tangled in his hair before I even have the chance to take a breath, and I’m kissing him back desperately, frantically, clutching at him as I explore his mouth with my tongue.

Harry kisses with the same passion he throws into everything else. His hands tug roughly at clothes, sliding down the back of my neck, across my shoulder blades, then lower. The pressure is intoxicating. When his fingers glide over my tailbone and onto my arse, I freeze. My stomach lurches as sharply as if I’ve inadvertently touched a Portkey.

_Fuck._

I shove him away with shaking hands.

“Draco—”

“Don’t.”

I grab my broom and stumble to the edge of the grounds as quickly as I can, without looking back at him. My legs are clumsy in a way that has nothing to do with flying and everything to do with the lethal dose of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I cross the Hogwarts boundary and Apparate home in a daze. I’m desperately relieved to find a note from Astoria on the kitchen counter, letting me know that she’s gone out for dinner and will probably be back late.

I head for the liquor cabinet, pour a double scotch, and damn near throw it down my throat. It’s not enough. Neither is the second. I can still taste Harry on my tongue.

I sink down onto the living room sofa, my stomach writhing like a snake pit as I try to process what I’ve done. My mind races at a hundred miles per hour, presenting me with a seemingly endless loop of memories: Harry in his apron at _The Coffee Pot_ ; Harry holding his own in a room full of my friends; Harry unable to contain his excitement as he gives me the latest _Ascendio_ update; Harry kissing me with the wild desperation of a man who knows exactly what he wants and refuses to be ashamed of it. It’s unhelpful in every possible way, but I’m powerless to stop the thoughts from coming.

I eventually raid the potions cupboard for a bottle of Dreamless Sleep. I take a double dose and pass out on the sofa before Astoria can return home and see what a state I’m in.

~*~*~*~

When I wake up the following morning, well-rested but still horribly unsettled, I resolve to cut off contact with Harry and act as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

My efforts fail miserably.

At work, I bury myself beneath a mountain of the most complicated repairs I can find in a bid to keep my mind occupied. I’m so bad-tempered and snappy with my customers it borders on unprofessional – if I weren’t a sole trader, I’d fire myself. Predictably, I’m at my worst on Friday mornings. In fact, I’m so horrible that after a particularly unpleasant argument with a customer over an irreparable self-filling vase, I take to locking myself away in the back room until lunch time as a method of damage limitation.

I try to hide my anguish at home, but somehow the fear and despair seep through my skin, polluting every inch of the house. Astoria can see that something is wrong, and she’s aware that I’ve suddenly stopped seeing Harry, but she knows better than to pry and initially leaves me to it. Her willpower is admirable; it isn’t until nearly three weeks later that she finally cracks.

It happens over dinner: Astoria mentions that it isn’t normal behaviour to serve beans on toast for dinner four nights in a row, and gently suggests that I might want to consider cooking something different tomorrow.

I tell her, in a fit of frustration, that if she wants something different, she’ll have to cook it herself and stop treating me like a House-elf.

The look she gives me is deadlier than the glare of a Basilisk. For a moment, I think she’s going to jinx me, but then she takes a deep breath and counts slowly back from ten.

“For god’s sake, Draco. This has got to stop.”

I scowl at her. “What has?”

She shakes her head in disbelief, blonde curls swinging left and right. “The _moping_! You’re driving me insane! Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Harry, but whatever you’ve done, just apologise to him and get over it.”

“What makes you think that _I’ve_ done something?” I ask. Even to my own ears, I sound like a petulant teenager.

She raises an eyebrow. “If he were the one in the wrong, you’d have spent the last few weeks bitching about it.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off before I can begin to speak.

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you. It can’t be that bad.”

If only she knew.

“Just go and talk to him. I can’t bear to see you like this.”

I know deep down that she’s right. Astoria is always right. Her impeccable logic is one of the many reasons I married her.

I grudgingly agree to go and see Harry, and promise that baked beans won’t feature on the menu again for at least a week.

~*~*~*~

As it happens, I’m spared the humiliation of paying Harry a visit: he turns up at the shop the very next morning.

He appears without warning, rattling at the stiff door, soaked to the skin from a flood of summer rain. His t-shirt is probably supposed to be a light shade of blue, but it’s so wet that it appears almost navy and clings to him indecently: even from across the room I can see the faint points of his nipples through the fabric.

A part of me wants to turn him away, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I flick my wand in his direction and the door bursts open.

He steps gratefully inside and stands, shivering, dripping all over the doormat.

“Hey.”

I pointedly look him up and down, then blast him with a jet of warm air from the end of my wand. He’s completely dry within a minute, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the charm.

“Thanks,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Nicely done, too. I usually end up singeing my clothes.”

I make a non-committal noise of acknowledgement and return to the two-way mirrors I was working on before his rude interruption. The repair is almost complete: I just need to sharpen the clarity of the reflections.

He barely gives me time to pick one of them up before gently clearing his throat. I choose not to acknowledge him and start to tweak the connective spellwork, then jump violently when his face appears in the glass. I whip my head around to see him holding the partner mirror.

Having successfully stolen my attention, he puts it down.

“You can’t avoid me forever, Draco.”

I stare at him, keeping my lips pressed tightly together.

His clothes are dry thanks to my spell, but his face and hair are still damp. As I watch, he removes his glasses and wipes the lenses against his t-shirt. His face looks naked without them, his green eyes slightly glassy and unfocused. I’m struck by a vivid mental image of him sprawled out across my bed with that same expression, and have to look away quickly.

He puts his hand out to touch my arm, but I get up, grab both mirrors and slip out of reach, into the back room. It’s dark in here, and the musty smell of antiques saturates the air.

He follows, of course. He’s never had any respect for boundaries.

I ignore him and return the mirrors to their spot on the highest shelf. I have to stretch to reach, and as I do, I feel his warm hands on either side of my waist. I freeze, my heart stuttering to a stop.

He takes advantage of my surprise and spins me firmly around to face him. Before I can even register what’s happening, his lips are on mine, his tongue seeking entry to my mouth. I taste his breath as he draws a gasp, and then I’m kissing him back, letting him in, every fibre of my being screaming _yes yes yes_ at the rough rasp of his stubble against my cheek.

He has me pinned against the shelves, his fingers gripping each of my wrists. He steps even closer, so he’s pressed firmly against me; chest to chest, hip to hip, letting me feel the full strength of his body.

That’s when I feel it. He’s hard. He’s hard for me. From kissing me.

Something snaps in my mind.

I wrench my hands free to claw at his clothes, pulling up his t-shirt, needing to feel his flesh beneath my fingers. He knocks them away, catching my wrists easily and pushing them firmly against the shelves again. I’m trapped.

With no obvious escape route, I allow my muscles to relax and give myself over to his ministrations – and _fuck_ , it feels good.

I must confess, I’ve never quite understood the appeal of kissing. It’s always seemed like a waste of time; a perfunctory means to an end. This, though. This is something else entirely. He kisses me so insistently, so thoroughly, that everything else ceases to exist. I stand, pliant and panting, in his grip as he maps out every corner of my mouth with glorious, leisurely movements. I can taste peppermint on his breath and smell his aftershave, and it feels almost as if I’m drowning.

It’s too good to last. Harry grinds his hips firmly against my aching cock, sinks his teeth into my kiss-bruised bottom lip one last time and pulls away. He steps back once, twice, three times, until he reaches the other end of the cramped little room.

It takes me a moment to pull myself together. My breath comes in heavy bursts, my lips tingling from the onslaught of kisses. I finally muster up the courage to look up at him, and my stomach drops.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t this: he looks furious. When he speaks, his voice is a deathly serious whisper.

“It never goes away, Draco. You can lie to yourself all you like, but this won't go away. You’re gay, just like me. You want this now, and you’ll want it in ten years, twenty years … you’ll always want it. It’s not fair on any of us. On you. On me. Most of all, on Astoria.”

Her name is impossibly worse on his lips, drenching me in shame like a bucket of ice-cold water. I don’t know what he wants me to say, so I remain silent.

He eyes me for a moment longer, then sweeps from the room without another word. I hear his heavy footsteps as he storms across the front room of the shop, and then the click of the door as it shuts behind him.

Once I’m sure he’s not coming back, I slide down the shelves until I’m sitting on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chest and my face buried in my hands. I’m shaking. It's as if he’s struck a match inside me: I’m burning alive and it’s simultaneously the best and worst thing I’ve ever felt.

~*~*~*~

The ‘Back Room Incident’, as I come to think of it – and I think of it almost constantly – has a number of consequences.

It further strains my relationship with Astoria. I make a conscious effort not to snap at her, but I’m horribly evasive of her attempts to find out what’s bothering me, and when she attempts the monthly ritual of trying to convince me to have sex with her, I refuse outright with no explanation. To her credit, she backs off without another word and doesn’t mention it again. I know I’m causing permanent damage, but I just can’t bring myself to engage with her.

It also leaves me completely unable to face Harry, largely because I’m worried about what I might do: snogging him senseless and hexing him into insanity seem equally likely. I avoid _The Coffee Pot_ like the plague and start to arrange long walks on Friday mornings, just in case he turns up at the shop.

Finally, and perhaps most significantly of all, it forces me to conclude that I’ve been avoiding the issue of my sexuality for long enough. I accept that it’s time to address it once and for all, and reluctantly begin to form a plan.

I decide to hold off until Astoria is next away with work to put my plan into action. The wait is a short one: barely two weeks later she kisses me goodbye and embarks on a three-day trip to Jaipur, with a promise to bring back a hand-knotted rug for the living room.

I spend the whole day dithering, but when seven o’clock finally comes around, I lock up the shop and begin to walk.

I tell myself that I’m just going for a stroll, but it doesn’t help. I used to be such a good liar that I could lie to myself and half-believe it. These days I can see right through the cracks.

I follow the river at first. September may be coming to an end, but the weather's still incredibly mild and there are crowds of people outside almost every pub I pass.

When I reach the Houses of Parliament, I turn off and head up through St James’s Park. I pass the spot where Harry and I fed the ducks on the day he revealed his initial ideas for _Ascendio_. It looks quite different at this time of year; the scenery has changed with the seasons.

I slow right down, taking in the colourful flower beds and huge numbers of people sprawled out on the lush green lawns. This is my favourite part of the summer: the decadent dregs, the point where everything is almost bloated, exhausted from a season of exuberance; when the trees can hardly bear the weight of their leaves and only the richest flowers remain – the reds, the purples, a few deep pinks. The knowledge that it's all so fleeting makes me love it even more.

There’s only so long I can put this off though, and I can't fool myself any longer. I pick up my pace and head in the direction of Soho, fighting the thrill of fear which shoots through my body at the thought of what I’m about to see.

It’s not a part of the city I frequent, and even though I’ve lived in London for longer than I’d care to admit, I barely know the area at all. If I were to be really honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I avoid it deliberately.

Luckily, it’s not difficult to find. I know immediately when I hit Old Compton Street: it’s packed with people and there are rainbow flags everywhere, draped across doorways and displayed in pub windows.

At first, the familiar symbol is all I notice; the only thing that sets this street apart from so many others in London. Then I look a little closer and I can’t quite believe my eyes. There are gay couples all around me.

I know it’s rude, but I can’t help but stare. The only thought running through my mind, over and over again on an endless loop, is: _these men are attracted to men, too_.

I wander along in a daze, not watching where I’m going, and almost plough right into two women holding hands. I apologise profusely and keep walking, only for my gaze to fall upon a couple of men, kissing fervently against a shop window. They look as if they’re trying to climb into each other's skin.

My mouth goes dry. I wonder if that’s how Harry and I looked, pressed against the shelves in the back room of my shop, kissing as though the world was about to end.

_Harry._

I suddenly feel panicked. My sense of wonder dissipates, replaced by a crushingly tight feeling in my chest. My heart begins to race. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here alone. I’m horribly out of my depth.

The sensible course of action would be to go home, but the thought of being alone makes me sick. There’s only one person I want to see.

I slip into the nearest alleyway, looking left and right to make sure no one can see me. When I’m sure I’m alone, I turn sharply on the spot. The crack of my Apparition echoes like a gunshot.

I materialise in the passageway round the corner from Harry’s flat and break into a brisk walk before I can change my mind.

I know, with a certainty that increases with every step, that this is a terrible idea. I should go home, go to bed, distract myself. Instead, I keep walking all the way to the familiar doorway beside _The Coffee Pot_.

When I get there, I take a deep breath and knock on the door with the confidence I wish I felt.

Harry answers it a moment later, wearing the usual jeans and tight t-shirt. A quick glance down at the floor reveals his bare feet. The sight of them has my own toes curling in my shoes.

“Draco!” he grins, looking genuinely pleased to see me. “What brings you here?”

“I needed to see you.” My words come out a little strained, and he frowns, concerned.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that ... I’ve just been for a stroll through Soho,” I say, striving for a casual tone and not quite managing it.

Something flashes in his eyes. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” The way he’s watching me makes me hyper-aware of my every movement. It takes great effort to resist the urge to stuff my hands into my pockets.

He bites his bottom lip, white teeth sinking into plump pink flesh. “How did it make you feel?”

His question gives me pause. I was expecting him to ask what I got up to, or perhaps whether I liked it. I take a moment to think.

“I felt … like I might have been missing out,” I say quietly, slowly.

He stares, unblinking, his eyes the violent green of an _Avada Kedavra_.

“Come up with me?”

The look on his face leaves me with no doubt as to where this is going.

“Okay.”

~*~*~*~

I’m hit by a disorientating daze of déjà vu as I follow him up the stairs to his flat. In a way, it’s like the night before my birthday all over again. At the same time, it’s completely different.

I follow him into the living room and hear the door handle click behind us; he’s cast a wordless, wandless spell to lock it. I turn, ready to chastise him for showing off, but all coherent thoughts leave me when I catch sight of his expression. He looks almost predatory.

He closes the distance between us in three easy strides and kisses me bruisingly hard, tugging at my hair with one hand, pulling me close with the other. I arch against him and part my lips, inviting him in, but he ends the kiss as suddenly as he started it, leaving me flustered and breathless.

I open my mouth to protest, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity. He turns me roughly around, so he’s standing behind me, his chest pressed flush against my back. There’s something incredibly erotic about this; I can feel him, but not see him. His arms snake smoothly around my waist, then he runs his hands up to my chest, raising a trail of goosebumps on my skin. His fingers graze my nipples through my shirt, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to my cock.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he growls, his breath hot against the back of my neck. “Show you exactly what you’ve been missing.”

“ _Oh god._ ” The words come out as a ragged whisper. My head is spinning; I didn’t expect him to be so self-assured. He’s obviously done this a thousand times before.

He unfastens the buttons of my shirt with such dexterity that I don’t even notice until it’s hanging open at my sides. He steps away only long enough to slip it off my shoulders, then he’s back, nipping at the nape of my neck, greedily mapping out my bare torso with his fingertips.

He nudges me forward, walking me across the room until I’m standing in front of the sofa, then his hands settle on my shoulders, gently pushing me down to my knees. Panic gnaws at me, but then he’s kneeling behind me, kissing between my shoulderblades as if he wants to eat me alive.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to do this for ages,” he mutters against my skin.

His hands slip around my waist again, but this time he’s unfastening my trousers, tugging them down along with my boxers in one smooth movement. The fabric pools around my knees on the floor – I’d scold him for abusing my expensive suit like this, but I’m a little preoccupied by the proximity of his hands to my cock.

My breathing is heavy with anticipation; any moment now he’s going to wrap those clever fingers around my prick. I can only imagine how good it will feel; I’m achingly hard and fairly certain that I’ve never wanted anything so badly. He traces the ridges of my hip bones with his fingertips, then grips them _hard_ for the space of a heartbeat before letting go. A frustrated whine escapes my lips, but he just huffs a soft laugh in response.

When he makes contact again, it’s to press his palms against my shoulder blades, pushing me forward. I fold my arms and rest them against the sofa cushion in front of me.

His hands slide smoothly down my spine and then dip lower, kneading my arse, spreading me open. I inhale sharply through my nose and fight the urge to straighten up, to limit his access to the most private part of my body. The air feels cool on my skin. I’ve never been exposed in this way before, and I’m not entirely sure if I like it.

My stomach clenches. I may have been missing out in terms of experience, but I’m not completely naive: I know what comes next. I brace myself to feel pain and the pressure of Harry’s finger, but it never comes.

Instead, the pause draws out, maddenly long. I’m about to tell him to get on with it when I feel warm breath, centimeters from my exposed arse. Surely he isn’t going to … but he _does_. He leans in and traces a slow, steady path with his tongue, starting behind my balls, which are almost painfully tight, and moving right up to the base of my spine, swiping firmly over my hole along the way.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

It’s all the encouragement he needs. He’s back there in an instant, nuzzling my hole with his lips. Kissing, licking, _sucking_ , sending heady waves of pleasure coursing through my body with every flick of his tongue. I’ve never felt anything like it.

It’s too much; too intimate, too sensitive. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but a needy “ _Please_ ” slips out, instead, and he’s only too happy to oblige. He eats my arse as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, burying his face between my cheeks and making the most delicious noises as he teases nerve endings I didn’t even know existed.

Before I know it, I’m pushing back against his tongue. It’s warm and slick, pointed at the tip to breach me with breathtaking precision. My muscles contract and release uncontrollably around him, fruitlessly trying to draw him in further.

I can hear moaning, ragged and desperate, and it takes me a while to realise that the sounds are coming from my own mouth; an endless stream of broken sentences, tumbling uncontrollably from my lips. “Oh my fucking god, please, _please_ … don’t stop … _uhhhhhhhh_ … _Harrrrryyyyy_ …”

I’m begging – actually _begging_ – him for more, pleading him not to stop, grinding shamelessly against his face, desperate to find any source of friction amidst the slick heat of his wonderful mouth. When I can’t find it, I take matters into my own hands.

I unfold my arms in a daze and reach back to hold myself open for him, exposing myself completely. My cheeks burn with shame at how badly I want this, and I bury my face in the sofa cushions before I can embarrass myself further.

The improved access makes all the difference; he runs the tip of his tongue around my sensitive rim until I can barely breathe, and when he finally pushes inside me again, it’s so much deeper, so much better, I have to bite back a scream. I realise with a thrill that he’s going to make me come without so much as touching my cock.

He keeps going until I’m right on the edge, then runs his fingers up the inside of my thigh, light as a feather. He increases the pressure as he reaches my balls, cupping them in his hand. They feel almost unbearably full and heavy; I’ve never been so desperate to come in my life.

Then he _moans_. Moans right into my arse, raw and needy, the sound muffled by my skin against his lips. The vibrations are too much; they carry me mercilessly past the point of no return and I come so hard my vision blurs, spilling my release onto the soft fabric of his sofa. My arse pulses around his tongue, but he carries on, fluttering the tip over my sensitive hole in an act of the most exquisite torture despite my feeble protests. He only stops when I shift my hips sharply away.

I’m shaking. A bead of sweat slides down the back of my neck but I’m too wrecked to even think about wiping it away. My arms hang limply at my sides; my face is still pressed into the sofa cushion.

When I finally manage to look up, he’s standing over me, hands on hips, victorious. He wipes his mouth carelessly with the back of his hand, green eyes ablaze in the dimly lit room.

“ _That_ is what you’re missing, Draco. Now tell me you’re completely satisfied with what you have.”

I gape at him. I’m not satisfied. Not even close. My god. It’s as if I’ve spent my entire life in a dark room and he’s sauntered in and cast _Lumos Maxima_.

It takes all my strength to stand, and when I do, I leave the afterglow behind. Queasy anxiety claws at my stomach. It dawns on me that this is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever done. Worse than breaking Harry’s nose at the start of Sixth Year, worse than letting You Know Who’s inner circle into Hogwarts … it all pales into insignificance in light of this.

This isn’t a moment of indiscretion; it’s not a foolish flirtation or a silly, drunken kiss. This is me on my knees, writhing desperately against Harry’s clever mouth, urging his tongue deeper inside my arse, begging him to lick me until I come.

I’m spent, but my body responds to the mere memory of what we’ve just done with such a shocking spike of arousal that my knees threaten to buckle. I clutch the arm of the sofa.

“Draco?” Harry’s cocky sureness of a moment ago has vanished. He looks worried. “Are you okay?”

What a stupid question. Of course I’m not okay.

I reach down and pull up my trousers, lightning fast. My arse is slick with his saliva.

“I have to go.”

I rush out of his flat, down the stairs, and through the front door without sparing him so much as a glance.

He doesn’t even try to stop me.


	4. Autumn into Winter

## Autumn into Winter

September slips quietly into October, the ever-shortening days creeping by in a pink-tinged haze. The sun rises later and later, and when day finally does break, the pale blue sky looks delicate enough to shatter.

As Halloween draws closer, the dreaded second anniversary of Astoria’s quest to build a family comes and goes without ceremony. Although we never discuss it and are no longer actively trying to make it happen, it’s ever-present: the Mountain Troll in the room.

One morning, I come down to breakfast to find a leaflet on the kitchen counter. ‘St Mungo’s Department of Fertility & Family Planning’, it proclaims, above a stock photograph of a smiling couple holding a baby. I blast it with a quick _Incendio_ and leave the ashes for Astoria to find.

I begin to stay at work a little later each evening. Hiding, I suppose you might call it. I find myself hoping that Astoria will be asleep before I arrive home. She knows exactly what I’m doing, but she never says a word about it.

The most difficult part through all of this is Harry’s absence. I haven’t seen him since that catastrophic night at his flat, and I’m staggered by the hole he’s left in my life. I have other friends, of course, but it’s not the same. My social circle is entirely too Slytherin; as much as I need to confide in someone, I can’t trust any of them not to have an ulterior motive. A part of me even wants to go and see Granger – she seems like someone who would give good advice – but she’s Harry’s friend, not mine, so I don’t.

Instead, I bury myself beneath a mountain of broken artefacts, revisiting the memory of what Harry and I did so often that if someone were to use Legilimency, they would likely send me on a one-way Floo journey to the Janus Thickey Ward.

Every time I hear the rattle of the shop door, my heart leaps into my throat and I whip my head up, searching for that familiar bird’s nest of inky black hair. It’s never him.

~*~*~*~

I’m midway through my breakfast on a rare morning off when Pansy’s shrill voice rings out from the direction of the front porch, so loud that at first I’m sure she’s magically amplifying it.

“Draco Abraxas Lucius Malfoy, let me in right this second!”

I reluctantly set down my spoon and tiptoe down the hallway until I’m standing behind the front door. I make no move to let her in, though I have no hope of beating Pansy in a battle of wills. I should have known it would come to this: I’ve been avoiding her owls for weeks. I suppose I ought to be grateful she’s come round while Astoria’s at work.

“How can you leave a pregnant woman out in the cold like this?”

She draws out the word ‘pregnant’ to make sure the neighbours hear, the manipulative bitch. I can picture her clutching her stomach, perhaps even leaning heavily against the wall in a display of weakness. I wouldn't put it past her.

I take a deep breath. There’s no point ignoring her; she clearly isn’t going to give up. Sure enough, she’s in full damsel-in-distress mode when I open the door.

“Get inside,” I growl through gritted teeth, stepping aside to let her in.

The moment I’ve shut the door behind her, she drops the act.

“What the fuck is going on with you and Harry?” she snarls.

I lead her through to the living room in silence, which only serves to intensify her rage.

“He’s a wreck, Draco. The _Ascendio_ launch is less than two months away, and my star client – _and good friend_ – is skulking about like a bloody Dementor. I told myself I’d leave you two to sort it out yourselves, but that’s obviously not going to happen and I’m out of patience. What the fuck have you done?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sniff.

She waddles over to me and jabs me sharply in the chest with a talon-like fingernail. “Don’t you play that game with me, Draco Malfoy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “If there’s something bothering Harry, wouldn’t you be better asking _him_ about it? I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me with such insolence I half expect her to stamp her foot. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? We’ve all seen the way you two look at each other. Even Theo’s noticed!”

Fuck. Theo’s the least observant person I’ve ever met when it comes to social situations. If he’s noticed, it must be blatantly obvious.

I clearly look rattled; her anger visibly dissipates as she watches me. She lets out a heavy sigh and when she continues, her voice is much softer.

“I always thought you might come and talk to me. About your preferences, I mean.”

“Since when have we ever talked about things like that?” I scoff, dropping all pretence of ignorance.

She shrugs. “There’s a first time for everything. I was convinced you were going to come out during Sixth Year, but then everything went to pieces with the War … and when the world started turning again, you and Astoria were suddenly joined at the hip.” Her tone turns tart over Astoria’s name, and my own temper flares.

“Leave Astoria out of this,” I snap. “You don’t like her, you never have, and that’s fine, but I won’t tolerate you bad-mouthing her in front of me.”

“Liking has nothing to do with it, and you know it. Besides, it’s not even that I don’t like her. I just didn’t want to get to know her. I figured you’d ditch her soon enough ... run off with a burly Quidditch stud, perhaps.”

I almost choke. I was so sure that I’d kept it all a tightly wrapped secret, but even back then, Pansy knew. When it becomes clear I’m not going to argue, she continues.

“But you didn’t ditch her, did you? You _married_ her, and I just couldn’t understand it. None of us could. At first, I thought perhaps you had some form of arrangement. You know: get married, pop out an heir, then amicably separate. But here you are, all these years later, no kids, still married.”

She looks at me imploringly, but still I say nothing.

“And then along comes Harry, and I see the pair of you fall so disgustingly in love I can hardly stand to watch it … and you _still_ stay married to her.”

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I’ve never thought of the development of my relationship with Harry as falling in love; never framed my feelings in quite that way. When she says it like that, though, it’s obvious she’s right. Only I could fall in love and not even realise it.

I clear my throat roughly. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression my relationship with Harry is anything other than a platonic friendship.”

Pansy’s frown turns mutinous. She taps her temple in an exaggerated gesture of deep thought, and promptly explodes.

“Hmm, let me see. How about the way you light up a fucking room when you’re in it together? The way he makes you happier than I’ve ever seen you? The way you eat each other alive with your eyes like a couple of teenagers? Take your pick! You can try and deny it all you want, but eventually something’s going to happen and—”

She stops abruptly, mid-flow, eyes widening.

“Draco, has something happened between you and Harry?”

The memory of his slick tongue comes back to me in a flash. Heat sears my skin: I feel a traitorous flush spread from its very source at the centre of my chest. It inches up my neck, painting my cheeks with a broad brush before cresting the tips of my ears, and I’m completely powerless to stop it.

“Oh, fuck. It has, hasn’t it? _That’s_ what all of this is about.” Her expression is a far cry from the usual smug look she gets when she proves herself right; she looks stunned.

“It’s really none of your business,” I hiss, my cheeks flaming.

She shrugs. “No, perhaps not. It is Astoria’s business, though, and it doesn’t seem particularly fair on her.”

“Don’t try to pretend you care about Astoria’s feelings.”

Pansy arches an eyebrow, unmoved. “All I’m saying is that if you gave a damn about her, you’d stop humiliating her. Nobody deserves that.”

I could dismiss this argument when Harry brought it up; he’s the archetypal golden Gryffindor, of course _his_ ethical standards are going to be ridiculously high. Coming from Pansy, though … her morals are pretty damn flexible. The familiar chill of guilt creeps through my veins, freezing me to the spot.

“Think about it, okay?” She leans in and kisses my cheek, pausing with her face close to mine to whisper in my ear. “And for once in your life, don't be such a fucking coward.”

Before I can respond, she sweeps off towards the front door, the _click clack_ of her high heels echoing in the hallway.

~*~*~*~

I don’t sleep a wink the night after Pansy’s visit. The hours creep by painfully slowly, and I lie awake, listening to Astoria’s steady breathing, as my inner monologue berates me with the word ‘ _coward_ ’ on an endless loop.

When morning finally arrives, I get out of bed, pull on a plain white shirt and the jeans Harry bought me, and dash out the door before I can change my mind.

It’s still ridiculously early when I arrive at _The Coffee Pot_ – so early that the usual rush hour crowd is only just beginning to trickle in, and almost every table is empty.

Matilda is standing with her back to the counter, setting up one of the coffee machines, and she takes my order without looking over at me.

“Name?” she asks distractedly, as she fiddles with the filter.

“Ray.”

She spins round to face me and immediately breaks into a huge grin. “Oh, thank fuck for that! Harry’s been a right grumpy so and so since you’ve been gone.”

I bite back a smile. “Is that so?”

She nods fervently. “God, yeah. Are you here to kiss and make up?”

“Erm—”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before sticking her head through the door to the corridor beneath Harry’s flat and screeching his name so loudly that several customers jump in their seats. They barely have a moment to recover before she’s at it again: “OI, HARRY! RAY’S HERE FOR YA!”

She turns back to me and lowers her voice. “I’ve been telling him for weeks to just go and see you – that whatever he did, he should just apologise to you and sort it out. He’s so stubborn, though, I don't—”

She breaks off abruptly as Harry bursts through the door behind her.

I appear to have interrupted his shower: his glasses are lightly misted and his hair is wet, dripping down his neck, darkening the neck of his threadbare t-shirt.

“Hey,” he beams.

“Hi.” I force my voice to remain steady. “Fancy a chat while I drink my flat white?”

“With you? Always.”

~*~*~*~

On the face of it, my decision to visit Harry pays off. We pick up our friendship from where we left it and revert to our familiar Friday morning coffee routine as though we haven’t just spent the best part of six weeks avoiding each other.

Beneath the surface, though, our relationship feels staggeringly different. However hard we try to pretend that nothing has changed, a gulf has opened up between us, and it feels impossible to bridge.

Harry’s casual touches, those little signs of affection I’ve grown so accustomed to – the playful nudges, the hugs, the occasional sharp jab to the ribs – have all stopped. I’m surprised by how much I miss them.

We continue to spend time with each other’s friends, but it’s not the same. Harry begins to avoid any gathering where Astoria will be present, and the good-natured bickering which we enjoyed so much has all but disappeared.

Our private conversations are affected, too. We’re so guarded, so careful to avoid any potentially sensitive topic, that spending time alone with Harry begins to feel as mentally taxing as playing a game of chess.

With discussions of sexuality firmly off the table, ‘ _Ascendio_ ’ becomes ‘the charity’, and Harry keeps his discussions firmly away from its purpose, choosing instead to focus on the upcoming launch. Pansy’s somehow convinced him to agree to a grand unveiling at the Ministry Christmas Ball on December twenty-third. I find myself desperately hoping he’ll invite me to it, but as the weeks pass, he makes no suggestion of me coming along. I spend a great deal of time worrying whether he hasn’t invited me because he doesn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable, or whether it’s because he simply doesn’t want me there.

From time to time, I search for the fire I saw in Harry’s eyes when he led me up to his flat on that fateful night, but it seems to have been firmly extinguished. His face is a closed book, so tightly shuttered that I wonder on more than one occasion if he’s employing Occlumency against me.

As for me, I can't look at Harry without thinking about what happened between us; the way he brought me to my knees and showed me the most intense pleasure I’ve ever known, how he took me apart with his clever tongue and reassembled me in a new order. I’m torn between wishing I could travel back in time to prevent it from happening, and longing for the courage to ask him to do it again.

The entire situation is torturous. We’re coiled like springs: it’s only a matter of time before one of us will snap, and I’m terrified of the consequences.

The tension doesn’t escape the notice of our friends, irritating mine and worrying his. When Harry and I return to the Granger-Weasleys’ house for another delicious dinner at the start of December, I lose count of the number of times Hermione asks if we’re okay.

At the end of the visit, we Apparate home separately. Harry makes no offer of a night cap, no suggestion that he’ll invite me into his home or put his bare feet anywhere near my lap ever again. The thought of it leaves me hollow, and I end up polishing off half a bottle of Firewhisky, even though it’s a weeknight.

When I finally stumble up to bed, I almost jump out of my skin when I find Astoria sitting up in bed, wide awake, waiting for me.

She asks very pointedly if I had a nice time with Harry. I can see that she has something to say, but I’m too tired and too drunk, and I snap at her to leave me alone.

~*~*~*~

I wake up to an empty bed, with a splitting headache and a mouth so dry it’s as if I’ve been eating Doxy droppings. It takes me several minutes to muster the courage to sit up, and when I do, I regret it instantly.

I stagger to the bathroom and retrieve a hangover potion from the cabinet – the very last one. I’d rather not consider the implications of that. Relief washes over me the moment it slides down my throat, sweeping away my headache and sour stomach. I’m still horribly dehydrated, but I feel infinitely better.

When I reach the kitchen, Astoria is standing by the window, all bundled up in her thick blue dressing gown, watching the snow fall outside. It reminds me of our late night study sessions at Hogwarts. She used to moan about how cold the dungeons were, and would wrap herself in layers upon layers of blankets, calling out questions on the uses of rare herbs through the folds of fabric.

I pad across the room towards her, wincing as the cold flagstones send a shiver up through my body. I kiss her forehead, my lips grazing her hairline. “Sorry about last night.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She shifts gently away and points to the counter.

A steaming mug of black coffee is waiting for me; beside it, a thick red envelope.

I pick it up and look at her, confused. “What’s this?”

“It’s your Christmas present.” She smiles, but it looks forced. We never exchange gifts early; we’ve always agreed that the anticipation is part of the fun.

“Christmas is over three weeks away,” I murmur, suddenly uneasy.

She shrugs. “I thought you might like it early. Open it.”

The tone of her voice is all wrong. Terror curls in the pit of my stomach and I have a strong urge to tear the envelope in two. I don't want to know what it contains.

“Open it,” she repeats.

I reluctantly slide my finger under the flap and gently prise it open. The pack of paperwork inside is heavy in my hand, the front page scarred with a seal of blood-red wax. I stare at the dense text, trying to make sense of it.

“ _Petitioner … Astoria Iris Malfoy … Respondent … Draco Abraxas Lucius Malfoy … referring to the marriage … hereby request dissolution…_ ”

The words swim on the page before my eyes. I can't process them.

“Is this a joke?” I ask eventually.

She manages another weak smile. “It wouldn't be a very funny one, would it?”

“You want a divorce? What kind of Christmas present is that?” The volume of my voice rises with each syllable, until I’m almost shouting. “Well?” I demand, when my words are met with silence.

When she does eventually speak, I have to strain to hear her.

“Draco … _I know_.”

I open my mouth to ask what it is that she thinks she knows, but she fixes me with such a piercing look that the words fall away and I stare at her, lost. Harry’s name hangs, unspoken, in the air between us.

I can't breathe.

“I don't know what to say,” I whisper.

I’ve spent so many hours thinking about this moment – longing for it and dreading it in equal measure – but I’m utterly unprepared for the violent jolt of fear that courses through my veins, rocking me to my very core and leaving me lightheaded. I’m dimly aware of my grip on the counter, so tight the bones of my knuckles threaten to burst through my skin. I’m certain that if I were to let go, I’d fall all the way to the floor.

“The customary response to receiving a gift is to say ‘thank you’,” she says, her tone carefully light even as she brushes away a tear.

“Thank you.” I breathe the words rather than say them; they flow from my lips like a gentle breeze, though my tacit acceptance of the divorce papers will have the impact of a hurricane.

“That’s quite all right,” she says stiffly.

I close the short distance between us and pull her into a tight embrace. My tough, witty, wonderful wife; she’s so small that her head barely comes level with my chest. She slides her arms around my waist and squeezes me as her tears dampen my pyjama top.

“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy,” she murmurs against my chest. “You’re not happy with me ... but you might be with him.”

I can’t bring myself to deny it. “I never wanted to hurt you,” I choke.

“I know,” she sniffs. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl. Though, I think it would be fair to say that you owe me, big time, for having the guts to put us both out of our misery.”

I laugh shakily. “That seems reasonable.” I lean down to press another kiss to the top of her head.

“I love you,” she says, looking up at me through teary blue eyes.

“You too,” I whisper, and I mean it.

We stand together by the window for what feels like an eternity, clutching each other close.

When we finally break apart, the back garden is buried beneath a fine dusting of snow.

~*~*~*~

I head to the shop in a daze, feeling as though the slightest knock could shatter me into a thousand pieces. Everything has been turned on its head; even the festive Christmas lights seem to blur like mirages in the morning mist.

When I arrive at work, I try to distract myself with the repair of a leaky Pensieve. I personally can’t see the point in getting such a thing fixed; I certainly have plenty of memories I’d be glad to lose. I'm so disgusted with myself that each glimpse of my reflection in its silvery surface triggers a crippling wave of nausea.

I force myself to face it head on. Shame prickles over my skin, hot and heavy, as I glare at the bastard who dared to hurt Astoria so badly. “You fucking monster,” I hiss. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”

_BANG!_

The shop door rattles loudly, causing me to jump so violently I almost fall off my chair. Adrenaline shoots through my veins when I look up to see Harry’s smiling face through the frosty pane of glass. My hand shakes as I point my wand at the stiff handle to let him in.

He bursts through the door in a flurry of snowflakes, holding a paper cup in each of his gloved hands. There are flecks of ice, stark white, dotted throughout the inky black mess of his hair.

In that moment, I hate him.

I hate him with a cold fury I didn't even realise I was capable of, despise him for bursting into my life with all the subtlety of a blast-ended skrewt, for turning everything upside down, for daring to appear at my shop as if nothing has changed, when in fact everything has changed and will never be the same again.

He shuffles over to me, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. “You didn't come for coffee, so I thought I’d bring the coffee to you.”

I take the smaller cup, not daring to look him in the eye. I’m afraid of what he might see.

“Astoria gave me my Christmas present this morning,” I say, quietly.

He pulls off his gloves and runs his fingers roughly through his tousled hair. “Yeah? Trust you to demand your present three weeks early, you spoilt brat. Anything exciting?”

He’s so utterly fucking oblivious that a part of me relishes the knowledge that I'm about to bring him back down to earth.

Even so, when I open my mouth to speak, my eyes sting. I blink furiously and take a gulp of coffee, desperately trying to claw back a shred of composure. It's searing hot; it burns my tongue and scalds my throat, the pain radiating all the way down to my churning stomach.

“Draco?” He’s catching on – he looks worried.

“A divorce.” The words come out in a shaky whisper.

“What?”

“She wants us to get divorced,” I repeat, drawing out each syllable in an effort to strike the infamous Malfoy drawl. I almost manage it. Almost.

The colour drains from Harry’s face so quickly and completely that I’m overcome by an absurd urge to laugh. He’s pale enough to pass for a Malfoy.

“Shit.”

I nod. “Yes. Shit, indeed.”

He doesn't ask why my wife would want to divorce me; he doesn't need to. He knows this is about him.

He starts to take a step towards me, then changes his mind. “Are you okay?”

There’s no point in lying about it. “Not particularly, no.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

Trust Harry to lapse straight into a fit of Gryffindor nobility. Once upon a time, I’d have mocked him for it. As it is, I have to grip the desk in front of me with both hands to prevent myself from getting up and giving him a hug.

“I think it would be best if you left.”

He nods. “Okay. Well, you know where to find me if you need me.” He slips his gloves back on and goes to leave. When he’s halfway out the door, he turns back to face me, looking every bit as lost as I feel. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

I’m not sure whether he’s sorry about the breakdown of my marriage or the role he’s played in it, but it doesn't make any difference.

“Not as sorry as I am.”

I get up and stand at the window, sipping my coffee as I watch him walk away through the snow. It tastes every bit as perfect as the first one he ever made for me.

~*~*~*~

I drift through the following fortnight in a daze. The entire situation feels unreal, like I could wake up at any moment and find that everything has returned to normal. As the days drag by, though, I’m forced to accept that it isn’t going to happen.

I have the house to myself; I returned from work the evening after Astoria gave me the divorce papers to find a note on the kitchen counter, explaining that she’s gone to visit her sister Daphne in Berlin. Her note didn't specify how long she’ll be gone for, but it seems she’s planning a long trip, if the way she’s cleared out her half of the wardrobe is anything to go by. A few days in, I notice that she’s left her wedding ring on her dressing table. I remove my own and put it beside hers. My hand looks naked without it.

My already desolate mood is exacerbated by the fact that I haven’t seen Harry since I asked him to leave the shop. In my half-formed fantasies, I always pictured us falling into each other’s arms in the event of my marriage ending, but I can see now how naive that was. I desperately want to see him, but I don’t know what to say. I’m terrified of being rejected. I settle for ordering his Christmas present, though I’m not sure I’ll actually end up giving it to him.

Midway through the first week, the situation worsens considerably. The _Prophet_ somehow gets wind of the divorce and, maybe because it’s a slow news week, or perhaps because Astoria’s recent negotiations with the American Magical Congress made front page news, decides to take an interest in our separation. Thankfully the stories are very thin on details, but the press attention rattles me; it’s been a long time since I’ve seen my name in the newspapers, and the resurgence of that old phrase, “former Death-Eater”, is most unwelcome.

I try to ignore it at first, boycotting the insidious rag and trusting Pansy to tell me if they publish anything of significance, but when a reporter turns up at the shop seeking an interview, I panic. I gather up the most pressing damaged items and make the decision to work from home until after Christmas. It’s comfortable enough, working at my kitchen table, but it does nothing to combat my sense of isolation.

I spend most evenings in the empty room upstairs – the nursery that never was – sitting in the armchair’s oppressive embrace, staring blankly at the whiskey stain on the carpet and trying to block out the interminable dirge of my thoughts.

All in all, it’s unpleasant, but tolerable.

I’ve experienced public humiliation before, after all. I’m old enough and strong enough to face it head on; to greet it, if not as an old friend, then certainly as a mildly irritating relative.

On the subject of relatives, I’ve had to block my Floo. For all of my mother’s cruel jibes and barely-concealed disdain for Astoria, it turns out she actually rather liked her. She turned up in my living room the morning of the first _Prophet_ article, still wearing her nightgown, to ask me what the fuck I was playing at. Well, she didn’t quite use those words, but it was alarming nonetheless. I dread to think what she’d have said if she knew about Harry. When she finally left, I got straight on to the Department of Magical Transport and asked them to lock my grate until further notice.

It’s a shame I can’t do the same with the front door. A handful of journalists and photographers have taken it upon themselves to set up camp outside the house, desperately seeking new scraps of information. The rapping at my front door has been relentless, so when a violent knocking echoes through the house midway through Tuesday morning, I grit my teeth and ignore it.

The knocking only grows louder, though, and I eventually storm down the hallway, ready to hex the impudent arsehole into next week. My fingers are closing around the door handle and I’m drawing breath, ready to let them feel the full extent of my wrath, when I hear a familiar voice.

“Draco?” I can hear the click of camera shutters in the background. “Draco, it’s Harry. Can you let me in, please?”

My stomach lurches with an odd mixture of delight and terror. I can’t believe he’s come to my house.

I open the door the barest amount and he slips inside, intermittently illuminated in frenzy of photographers’ flashes.

He’s dressed warmly in a thick winter coat, but it hangs open to reveal a t-shirt featuring the _Ascendio_ logo. His expression brightens at the sight of me, but he looks tired and he clearly hasn’t shaved for a few days; there’s a heavy scruff of stubble along his jawline. I remember all too well how good his facial hair feels against my skin, and have to clench my fists to prevent myself from reaching out to touch it.

“How does that little stunt fit into Pansy's PR master plan?” I ask, gesturing back towards the hallway as I lead him through to the kitchen.

He shrugs sheepishly and looks at his feet. “Erm…”

I shake my head. If there’s one thing Pansy hates, it’s unplanned press attention – especially so close to an event as big as the _Ascendio_ launch. “She’s going to kill you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grimaces, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter. “I’m sure she’ll think of a way to put a positive spin on it, though. God knows I’m paying her enough.”

It’s a fair point, but I’m not letting him off the hook that easily: I know Pansy will try to pin at least half of the blame on me. “True, but you should have just fire-called me. I could have come to your flat, instead.”

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Firstly, you know full well I don’t have a Floo connection at the flat. And secondly, I _did_ try to Floo in from Ron and Hermione’s, but I couldn’t get through. Something about a temporary block?”

“Oh, right,” I wince. I’d forgotten all about that. “I’ve had to shut my grate to keep my mother at bay.”

“Sounds reasonable,” he says, with a quiet huff of laughter.

In the silence that follows, his expression turns earnest. “Anyway, how are you?”

“I’m—” I want to tell him I’m fine, but the word dies in my throat. I try again, more honestly. “I’m … as you might expect.”

He nods seriously, then reaches for the kettle. I stand perfectly still, watching as he fills it and sets it to boil. It’s unsettling to see him looking so at home in my kitchen. I remember his carefully concealed trepidation the first time he came round, before the initial meeting with Pansy.

He catches my eye and gives me a tentative smile. “There’s nothing a cup of tea won’t help. I learned that from Molly Weasley.”

I nod mutely and wander over to stare out the window. The scene outside is fittingly festive; although it hasn’t actually snowed for several days, last week’s heavy white blanket still lingers on the ground.

Harry finishes making the tea and crosses the room to stand beside me. He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, then sets our mugs down on the windowsill. Tendrils of steam rise from them, twisting and turning in the air, misting the glass until everything looks smudged.

I’m about to ask what he’s thinking when he reaches out and puts his arms around me, pulling me against him so firmly and with such confidence that it doesn’t even cross my mind to resist. I return the embrace and bend to rest my cheek against his shoulder. The similarity of our stance to that of me and Astoria on that awful morning two weeks ago is not lost on me; we’re even standing in the same spot.

Physically, it’s much more comfortable to hug Harry; the height difference is only a few inches, and I don’t need to worry about lipstick stains. Physiologically, it’s torture. Our embrace isn’t sexual in the slightest, yet my pulse roars in my ears and the familiar scent of his aftershave sends my head spinning.

I’m hit by a powerful, horribly inappropriate urge to pin him against the wall and bring our hips together; to sink my teeth into the soft skin of his neck and rut against him. My prick hardens, trapped beneath the fabric of my trousers, and I have to adjust my stance to conceal it.

Fortunately, Harry doesn’t appear to notice. He holds the hug for several minutes, rubbing gentle circles between my shoulder blades. When he finally loosens his hold on me, he kisses me just once, a close-mouthed peck on the lips with an undertone of such tenderness it takes my breath away, then runs his fingers smoothly through my hair.

“Come to the Ministry Christmas Ball with me, for the _Ascendio_ launch,” he murmurs.

I step back to look at him properly. I think I understand what he’s asking, but I want to be sure. “In what capacity?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he shrugs. “As a date, as a friend … I don’t care. I just want you there with me. I’m not sure I can do it without you. Please?”

He looks at me hopefully, his green eyes more persuasive than a perfectly cast _Imperius_ , and I realise, with a jolt of surprise that causes my heart to miss a beat, that I’d do just about anything for him.

“Fine.” It’s a colossal understatement, but it will have to do.

His face lights up. “Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes. It’s a date.”

Harry pulls me in for another hug, apparently lost for words. It’s entirely different from the gentle embrace of a few minutes ago; we’re clutching at each other fiercely, crushing the air from each other’s lungs, squeezing so tightly it hurts.

As we do, the significance of the situation settles, bringing with it a fresh wave of tension. After all, the _Ascendio_ launch is not just _a_ date: it’s _the_ date. Harry’s coming out event. And by agreeing to attend with him … well, I suppose it becomes _my_ coming out event, too. I don’t feel at all ready for that, but I’m not sure if I ever will. At least this way, I’ll get to do it with Harry.

A tight tangle of terror and delight twists within my chest. It’s too much to think about right now, too much to process.

“I hope you have something decent to wear,” I mutter into Harry’s messy hair in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I reserve the right to change my mind if you turn up in your usual dishevelled state.”

He pulls back and bursts out laughing, effortlessly sweeping away the tension. “Oh, I do. Don’t you worry about that.”

~*~*~*~

I spend the day of the _Ascendio_ event pacing around my house like a madman. I decide to cancel no fewer than fifteen times, but when seven o’clock finally arrives, I change into my smartest set of dress robes and Apparate before I can change my mind.

I’ve attended Ministry Christmas Balls before, with Astoria. They change the venue every year, but it’s always an old, stately building of some kind, and this year is no exception: the Apparition coordinates bring me out in the grounds of a beautifully restored medieval castle.

Well-dressed witches and wizards are popping out of thin air all around me, and I follow the steady stream of guests up the hill, looking up at the imposing building, all lit up in red and green. It’s not a patch on Hogwarts, but it’s enough to distract me until I pass through the imposing wooden doors into the foyer.

The room is packed full of people, talking animatedly in tight clusters.

I keep my face neutral as I scan the room for any sign of Harry. It’s never pleasant to arrive at an event like this alone, and I’m beginning to wish I’d insisted upon attending his last-minute meeting with Pansy so we could travel together.

Just as I’m beginning to panic, I spot him over by the bar. He’s flanked on either side by Blaise and a very pregnant Pansy, and they’re doing an admirable job of keeping a group of hungry-looking reporters away from him.

I smile politely at the many familiar faces I encounter as I push through the crowd towards him, even though most of them glare in response, no doubt having seen the press coverage of mine and Astoria’s separation. It’s almost funny: if they hate me now, I can only imagine how strongly they’ll despise me when they find out I’m here as Harry Potter’s date.

I tap him on the shoulder. “Evening.”

He turns to face me, and my heart misses a beat at the smile which tugs at his lips. “Draco!”

I look him up and down with approval. He’s wearing beautifully tailored emerald-green robes which match his eyes and contrast spectacularly with his messy black hair. They’re perfectly pressed, too; there’s not a crease in sight.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Am I presentable enough to be seen with you?”

“Fucking hell,” I manage, sounding slightly strangled.

Harry grins. “Is that a good ‘fucking hell’?”

Merlin, he’s irritating. “Yes. Now stop fishing for compliments.”

A bright photographer’s flash brings our conversation to an abrupt end. Pansy rebukes the culprit – a young man in crumpled robes which are several sizes too big – and leads us through to the main Ballroom.

It’s beautifully decorated in silver and gold; at least fifty Christmas trees line the walls, and the ceiling has been enchanted to look as if it’s snowing. There’s a large dance floor in the center of the room, surrounded by round tables which are rapidly filling with guests.

Pansy’s managed to get us a private table at the very back of the room, hidden behind a veritable fortress of Privacy Charms. Harry’s shoulders visibly relax as we pass through the invisible barrier, and the knot in my stomach loosens considerably.

“God, I’m glad I hired you. You’re a genius,” he tells her, as he falls into his seat.

Pansy smirks and pours herself a glass of water. “Obviously.”

The Ministry organisers have insisted upon giving Harry the very last time slot for his speech about _Ascendio_. It leaves us with time to kill, so Blaise and I spend the next two hours drinking decent wine as various elderly, white-bearded wizards give speeches and present each other with awards. Harry, like Pansy, sticks to water. He’s noticeably subdued, and he grows even quieter as his speech draws closer.

When the time finally comes, I squeeze his hand gently. “You’ll be fine,” I murmur.

He gets up and heads for the stage. Pansy and I leave Blaise at the table and follow, making our way to the front of the room, determined to get the best possible view. Pansy’s enormous baby bump proves to be something of a secret weapon; everyone is eager to move out of her way, and we manage to secure a prime spot.

My own heart hammers in my chest as Harry takes to the stage.

His worries were unfounded, just as I expected. He’s noticeably tense at first, but his passion for the cause soon eclipses his nerves. He keeps the speech short and tightly focused on the charity, explaining its aims and the resources it will provide. Even the ‘coming out’ portion is linked neatly to _Ascendio_ ; he simply states that he wishes there had been something similar available for him as a teenager.

He finishes with a question and answer session, much to the delight of the rabble of reporters who are pushed up against the stage, fighting for his attention. He refuses to answer any personal questions, telling those who ask to contact Parkinson Zabini, with the exception of one, right at the very end.

It’s a question from a tiny little witch in magenta robes; she could only be from _Witch Weekly_ magazine. “Mr Potter! Is there someone special in your life right now?”

His eyes meet mine, and his answer rolls off his tongue without so much as a split second’s pause. “Yeah, there is. There’s someone I care about enormously … love, even. But it’s still early days and I don’t want to scare him off, so please respect our privacy.”

In the brief hush that follows, he thanks everyone for their time, then strides off the stage to a vigorous round of applause, his confident posture slipping away with every step he takes.

Every person in the room watches as he weaves through the crowed and comes to a stop a few feet short of me. He doesn’t make any attempt to touch me; he just stands there, not wanting to push me too far.

I can barely breathe.

Pansy’s words echo in my mind. _For once in your life, try not to be such a fucking coward._

This is it. It’s a single step, not even a full stride, but it’s possibly the biggest one I’ll ever take.

People all around us are watching and whispering, but I can barely hear them over the thud of my racing heart.

I take a deep breath, close the gap, and kiss him.

It’s nothing and it’s everything. As kisses go, it’s remarkably chaste; a soft peck, with no other parts of our bodies touching. But as is so often the case, the devil is in the details. We hold it for a fraction of a second too long, and the look he gives me when I step back speaks volumes.

Several long moments pass before I register the hushed muttering of the crowd, whipping around us like the winter wind. This should be horrifying; I ought to feel sick with anxiety, mortified by my lack of subtlety, terrified of the reactions that are sure to follow … but Harry’s looking at me as if I’ve given him the stars, and the only emotion I feel is sweet, blessed relief. It’s as if I’ve cast off a heavy cloak after a long day; I’m lighter, somehow. Whatever happens next, there will be no more hiding.

Music suddenly fills the room; the string quartet have taken their places by the dance floor, and have apparently decided to begin on a gentle note. The tune is smooth and slow, almost soothingly repetitive.

I tug at Harry’s arm. “Come on, we’re going to dance.”

He blinks. “What? Are you sure?”

I sigh impatiently. “Yes. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a Ball. It would be terribly poor etiquette to leave without participating in a single dance.”

He grimaces. “But I’m useless at dancing.”

That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. “I know. I seem to recall you lumbering around at the Yule Ball with all the grace of a lame Centaur.”

He tries to frown at me, but doesn’t quite manage. “Tell me, _why_ did I invite you as my date, again?”

I flash him my brightest smile. “Because I’m witty, handsome and, unlike you, understand what constitutes acceptable behaviour in a formal setting.”

He nods, defeated, and allows me to pull him towards the dance floor.

His coordination hasn’t improved at all since school: he’s a terrible dancer, and yet it feels easy. I lead, naturally, and when I put my hand to his waist, I revel in the hard muscle beneath my fingers. He’s shorter than me, but only just; I don’t even need to bend. He follows clumsily but willingly, occasionally tripping over my feet or moving in the wrong direction.

“Everyone’s staring at us,” he mumbles.

I give him my most arrogant grin. “Of course they are. They’re blown away by how good we look together.”

He beams and leans in to kiss me softly.

My theory is confirmed a few minutes later when I catch a glimpse of our reflection in one of the long windows. We look fantastic: dark and fair, broad and slim, complementary opposites.

It’s a very long piece of music, and when it finally comes to an end, Harry breathes a sigh of relief. “That’ll do, won’t it?”

I look around. We’re one of only four couples on the dance floor; everyone else is crowded round the edges, gawping. “Yes, I think we’ve done enough.”

Harry puts his hand on the small of my back and we stride purposefully from the ballroom without giving the throng of onlookers a second glance. We keep going, through the foyer and into the bitterly cold grounds, and don’t stop until we reach the Apparition point.

When he holds out his hand, I take it without hesitation, lacing our fingers together.

_CRACK!_

We land a moment later in the familiar alleyway down the road from Harry’s flat.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas Day?” he asks as we begin to walk, still hand in hand. The temperature has plummeted even further here in London; it’s freezing, too cold even for snow.

I shrug, which is no easy feat given how violently I’m shivering. “I don’t have any. What about you? I assume you’ll be enjoying a very _Weasley_ Christmas? All decked out in your monogrammed jumpers, doing whatever it is that gingers do?” Despite my best efforts, a note of bitterness creeps into my voice.

He eyes me disapprovingly. “I was actually going to ask if you wanted to spend it with me.”

I can’t mask the look of horror which falls across my face. “With the Weasleys?”

He shakes his head. “No, you prat. Just us.”

“Oh.” I stop dead in the middle of the pavement, stunned that Harry would be willing to sacrifice his Christmas plans to spend the day with me. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for my response. A hint of apprehension is evident in the curve of his lips. “I’d like that,” I admit.

“Good.” He tugs my hand lightly and we continue walking together in comfortable silence.

He pauses when we reach the front door to his flat, looking nervous again. “Do you want to stop over tonight?”

I’m incredibly tempted, but I’m in no doubt that if I stay here, we’ll end up doing rather more than sleeping. As much as I want to, I’d strongly prefer to do it properly, when my senses aren’t dulled by alcohol and the intoxicating rush of coming out to the entire Wizarding world. And, all right, perhaps I need a bit of time to mentally prepare myself for it.

I’m not sure how to express all of that, so I smirk at him instead. “That would be terribly indecorous for a first date.”

He frowns briefly, but then seems to understand. “Fair point. How about tomorrow night, then? That way, we can start Christmas day together.”

My pulse stutters at the implication. “Tomorrow night would be … acceptable,” I murmur.

He nods. “Brilliant. Can I at least give you a goodbye kiss? Surely that isn’t too scandalous?”

“I think that would be fine,” I concede with a wry smile.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and nudges me gently back against the polished surface of the door, making sure my head doesn’t come into contact with the enormous wreath of holly which hangs near the top.

He leans in and pauses, so close I can taste his warm breath. “Thank you for tonight,” he whispers, then presses his lips to mine.

It’s not a goodbye kiss, at all; it’s a slow, sensuous promise. His hands move up to cup my face as he nibbles at my bottom lip, rubbing the cold tip of his nose against my own. Just as I think he’s about to pull away, he deepens the kiss without warning, slipping his tongue between my lips and grinding his hips against me, forcing me back against the door. I gasp at the sudden pressure, bucking up into the assault of delicious friction. It’s as if the cold winter air has suddenly disappeared; my skin is burning, every nerve ending is on fire as he fucks me through my robes, never breaking the kiss. It feels so incredibly good, but it’s not enough; I need him to touch me properly.

I’m on the brink of begging him when the teasing bastard steps back abruptly, panting. “Goodnight, Draco.”

It’s a moment before I’m able to reply. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” I say, my voice shaky.

He grins, delighted at the effect he’s had on me. “I can’t wait.”

~*~*~*~

In light of our newly made plans, we each spend the following day meeting various family commitments, having arranged to meet at Harry’s flat for dinner.

Harry’s agenda is packed to bursting point; he may be lacking in biological relatives, but it turns out he’s acquired a remarkable number of surrogate families over the years. As I get ready to visit my parents, I try to remember all of the people he’s planning to visit. I lose track after his _Coffee Pot_ friends, the Weasleys, Teddy Lupin, and – I shudder slightly – _Hagrid_ , of all people.

As for me, my only port of call is the Manor. I was already apprehensive about visiting my parents – I’ve had no contact with them since blocking my Floo over two weeks ago – and last night’s events serve to add a whole new dimension of dread as I trudge up the gravel path to the front door.

My concerns are proved correct immediately. Binky opens the door with a solemn expression and leads me through to the drawing room, where my mother and father greet me with matching frowns. I attempt to break the ice by wishing them a happy Christmas, but my efforts are met with a grave silence. The atmosphere is as frigid as the Hogwarts dungeons.

My rash decision to kiss Harry at the Ball pays off in one respect: I don’t have to find the words to tell my parents about him, as they’ve already seen it on the front page of the _Prophet_. They’re confused and horrified, just as I expected them to be. My father makes no effort to disguise his disgust, and my mother tells me several times that it’s not too late to “abandon this silly nonsense” and win Astoria back.

The day drags interminably, and in any other circumstances their frosty reception and caustic comments would make my blood boil, but the knowledge that I’ll be spending Christmas Day with Harry makes it all too easy to grin and bear it.

All the same, I can’t resist indulging in one little bit of retaliation. I sneak off upstairs after lunch and call all three of my parents’ House-elves into my childhood bedroom. Twenty well-spent minutes later, my work is complete: I’ve established my very own elfin choir. 

“Remember, you have to really emphasise the word ‘ _gay_ ’,” I explain. “And you have to sing it all Christmas.”

“Yes, Master Draco.”

“Good. And don't forget, they’ll probably ask you to stop, but they don’t mean it. It’ll really make their Christmas special.”

Tiggy and Mopsy disapparate with a _CRACK!_ , but Binky scurries off on foot, her wizened little face screwed up in concentration as she sings, in her little squeaky voice: “...have yourself a merry little Christmas … make the Yuletide _gay_ …”

“Excellent.”

~*~*~*~

When I finally arrive at Harry’s flat that evening, he greets me at the front door wearing – for the love of Merlin – a Christmas jumper. Not just any Christmas jumper, either; it’s patterned all over with fat little turkeys and embellished with brussel sprout pom-poms.

“I’ve changed my mind, I’m going home,” I say flatly, even as I push past him and make my way up the stairs.

“It’s a Weasley family tradition,” he explains. “We all compete to see who can turn up in the most hideous jumper. Luna knitted this one for me, specially.”

I turn to face him as we reach his living room. The jumper looks a thousand times worse in the light. “I assume you won?”

He shakes his head dejectedly. “Nope. I didn’t even make the top three.”

I put my head in my hands. “Weasley jumpers … Lovegood knitting … what on earth am I getting myself into?”

He laughs. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll take it off. I warn you, though, there’s a good chance I’ll put it on again at some point tomorrow.”

With that, he pulls the offending garment up and over his head. His plain black t-shirt rides up in the process of doing so, giving me a glimpse of his flat stomach. The way he looks at me as he slowly tugs it back down leaves me with no doubt that he did it on purpose.

I clear my throat. “I believe you mentioned something about dinner?”

He grins. “I did. I hope you like spaghetti bolognaise.”

I confirm that I do, and follow him through to the kitchen to find two plates of steaming pasta on the table. We tuck in eagerly; the busy day has left both us of ravenous.

When we’ve both finished, Harry – ever the show off – sends the plates over to the sink with a casual flick of his right hand and we move into the living room. For once, he doesn’t offer any alcohol.

My heart leaps into my throat when, in the course of making himself comfortable on the sofa, he drops his bare feet into my lap. I waste no time in pushing up his jeans to reveal his ankles, and begin to run my fingertips over the delicate arches of his feet.

He sighs contentedly and leans back, letting me explore every inch of skin. Every now and then I find a ticklish spot, making his toes twitch, but he never makes any effort to move.

“So, what do you normally get up to on Christmas Eve?” he asks.

“I usually spend it at the Manor, drinking my body weight in gin and enduring a masterclass in passive aggression,” I say with a grimace. “How about you?”

“I spend it with Ron and Hermione. We try our best to wear Rose out, and then we play board games…” His expression turns deadly serious. “I can think of something far more exciting to do this year, though.”

“Oh?”

Harry’s gaze turns heated. “Oh, yes.”

He leans forward and pulls me in for a truly filthy kiss, dragging his tongue slowly over mine and nibbling at my lower lip until I’m gasping for air. His hands come up to the back of my head, holding me in place, mussing my hair while he has his way with me. I’m all too happy to let him.

By the time he finally pulls back to look at me, I feel as though I’ve been hit by a Jelly-legs Jinx. He may be the _Saviour_ , but the gleam in his eyes is nothing short of wicked.

I swallow hard. “Can you give me a minute?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be in the bedroom.” He moves his legs from my lap, leaving me free to get up.

I pad over to the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and promptly hyperventilate. I want this, desperately, but at the same time, it’s more petrifying than walking through the gates of Azkaban. I’ve never slept with a man before; I have no frame of reference for this, no idea what I’m doing.

After a few moments of all-consuming panic, I claw back control over my breathing and glare at myself in the mirror above the sink. I look dishevelled already: my cheeks are flushed a light shade of pink and my hair is sticking out at all sorts of angles thanks to Harry’s fixation with running his hands through it.

They say it’s the first sign of madness, talking to yourself, but I’m quite sure my sanity departed months ago, so I clear my throat and address myself sternly. “For once in your life, have some fucking courage. You’re going to go in there, let him lead, and have the best sex of your life. You can do this.”

The prospect of having the best sex of my life is a very pleasing one, and I smile despite myself. It’s a revoltingly sappy expression, one which I’ve never seen on my face before. I quickly replace it with a look of steely determination. I _can_ do this.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I head to Harry’s bedroom and push open the door to find him sprawled across the bed, wearing only his underwear. He’s dimmed the lights to a soft glow, but it’s not so dark as to detract from the view, and I stumble to a stop at the sight of him. I look him up and down, admiring his perfectly flat chest, his toned stomach, his muscular legs. The burgundy bed linen complements his warm skin tone perfectly; he looks so alive, so wonderfully, deliciously _masculine_.

He notices me staring and chuckles. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

He sits up and shifts backwards along the bed until his back is resting against the headboard, watching appreciatively as I shed my socks, shirt and trousers. I’m usually very particular about folding my clothes, but tonight I let them fall to the floor in a heap; I can’t bear to take my eyes off Harry for a single moment.

I take a step towards him, but he puts up a hand to stop me.

“And the pants.”

It’s a demand rather than a request, and it makes my stomach writhe with a heady combination of arousal and apprehension. I’m not at all used to being bossed around in bed, and his commanding tone leaves me feeling incredibly vulnerable, but also inexplicably desperate to comply.

I feel a flush creeping up my neck as I hook my thumbs under the waistband of my boxer shorts and slide them to the floor in one fluid motion.

My heart is racing, but I give him my cockiest look – head tilted slightly to one side, one eyebrow raised, lips turned up just so – and straighten up teasingly slowly, until I’m standing before him, completely naked.

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, though I suppose he didn’t have much chance to look properly last time. Tonight he seems to be making up for lost time; I can practically _feel_ his eyes roaming over every inch of my skin. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, letting his gaze linger over my hip bones. The look of hunger in his eyes has me hard within seconds.

“Come here,” he breathes.

I climb onto the bed beside him and he immediately pulls me roughly onto his lap, so I’m straddling his thighs. This, too, is new. It’s a position I could get used to; it feels good to be on top of him, holding him in place.

I reach for his glasses and take them off. His face looks bare without them, his eyes almost offensively green and slightly unfocused.

“I can't see you properly without those,” he protests.

“Good.” All the better to look at him, unnoticed.

I capture his lips with my own before he can object further, easing my tongue into his mouth and kissing him deeply, just as he likes to be kissed. As his breathing gets heavier, I run my tongue along the line of his jaw, shuddering with pleasure at the prickle of his stubble against my cheek.

I nibble gently at his earlobe, then move lower to sink my teeth into the tender skin of his neck. I’ve clearly found a sensitive spot: he grips my thighs involuntarily as I begin to bite and suck, working a deep bruise into his flesh. Love bites may be a little adolescent, but after so many months of endless _wanting_ , I’m overcome by the need to mark him as my own. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, if his quiet moans are anything to go by. I can feel his pulse thrumming frantically against my tongue.

As I continue my assault on his neck, I become aware of his cock filling out, growing thick and swollen, until it’s straining against his boxers. I can’t resist looking down at it. My breath hitches as I see the wet patch where the fabric is pulled taut over the tip.

Harry takes advantage of my distraction, dipping his head to flick his tongue over my nipple. I gasp and arch into him, my poor, neglected prick twitching with each little shock of pleasure as he bites and sucks at the sensitive nub. He finally finishes, only to make a start on the other side.

I almost sob with relief when he finally reaches down and curls his fingers around my cock. For a moment I think he’s going to quicken the pace, but I’m mistaken; he’s in no hurry. He strokes me firmly but unbearably slowly, in a monstrously cruel tease that has me thrusting up into his hand. I squirm in his lap, trying unsuccessfully to speed him up before I finally give in and whine, “Harry … _more_.”

His movements falter as he registers the unrestrained need in my voice.

“Please,” I whisper.

He gently pushes me aside so I’m sitting next to him, then looks at me, completely serious. My nerves return with a vengeance as I realise what I’ve asked for.

“I should probably have told you sooner, but when it comes to sex, I generally prefer to bottom,” he says quietly.

I gape. This is actually going to happen. He wants me to fuck him.

He misinterprets my silence and begins to backtrack. “I mean, I’m happy to top if you want me to, but—”

“I’d definitely rather top,” I say, feigning an air of confidence which makes me sound almost as if I know what I’m doing, when in fact I feel weak with relief. I want him so badly it hurts, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let _him_ fuck _me_. Even as the thought crosses my mind, I realise it’s not entirely true; my chest tightens as it occurs to me that if he’d wanted to do this the other way around, I’d have let him. I trust him enough that I’d have let him. It’s certainly an option to consider in the future.

He leans in for another kiss, pulling me out of my thoughts. “We’ll have to take it slowly, though. I haven’t done this in absolutely ages.”

I make no effort to hide my grin. I'm delighted, though I’m not quite sure what constitutes ‘absolutely ages’. Years, hopefully.

“Struggled to find a willing partner?” I smirk.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “No, you prat. I haven’t done it in ages because I was too busy pining over you.”

His easy honesty catches me off-guard. “Pining? For how long?” I ask.

“Long enough that I’m out of patience,” he quips.

Before I can respond, he reaches into his bedside drawer and takes out the very same bottle of lube I found on the morning of my birthday. I try to work out if the contents have been depleted much, but it’s difficult to tell in this light.

My thoughts stutter to a stop as he uncaps it. He liberally coats two fingers with the clear liquid before setting the bottle down on the bedside table. Then he moves down the bed, until he’s lying on his back, and flashes me a tentative smile.

I sit back and stare as he spreads his legs and reaches down, pressing the very tip of his forefinger against his furled hole before easing it all the way into his body. The sight of it sends a powerful thrill of arousal coursing through every last inch of me. His face is initially a picture of concentration, but when he catches sight of my stunned expression, he begins to put on a show. His eyes flutter shut as he works one finger, then two, in and out of himself, slowly and firmly.

It’s almost unbearably erotic, watching him work his arse open for me, and it’s all I can do not to touch myself.

The flush which creeps across his cheeks instils in me a burst of courage. I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “Let me.”

He falters in his movements. “Yeah?”

I don't reply; just pick up the bottle of lube and pour a generous quantity onto my fingers. It’s cool and slippery against my skin, but it quickly warms up.

I crawl down the bed until I’m kneeling between his legs. He spreads them a little wider to make room, and in doing so reveals the dusky pink pucker of his hole, glistening with lube. I stare, awestruck, for a moment before reaching out to touch it.

I tentatively run my fingertips over the delicate skin, drawing a gasp from him which quickly becomes a groan as his hole begins to open for me, twitching as I ease two fingers inside.

My mouth falls open at the tight heat of his arse. Despite his thorough fingering, his channel is almost unbearably narrow. I can only imagine how he’s going to feel around my cock. His muscles ripple against my fingertips as I slowly begin to move my hand, imitating what I’ve just seen him do.

“Curl your fingers upwards,” he pants, demonstrating with his own. “Like this.”

I do as I’m told and he rewards me with a deep groan, pushing back against my hand. A rush of pre-come spills from the end of his cock, running down the head and pooling on his stomach.

“ _Ohhhhhh_ , that’s it … feels, _uhhhh_ , amazing.”

I do it over and over again, my own breathing becoming ragged as I watch him begin to fall apart. I feel powerful, making him moan and writhe like this.

His eyes are screwed tightly shut, and his prick is flushed a deep shade of pink, leaking a steady stream of pre-come.

In no time at all, he’s begging me for more. “Please, Draco. I’m so ready. Need it. Need— _ohhh_ —you to fuck me.”

I don't need to be told twice.

I slip my fingers from his arse and slick my aching cock with lube. I’m so aroused that even my own touch is bliss.

Harry grabs a pillow and puts it under his hips, and then he’s tugging me close, pulling me into position.

I line myself up against him and pause to look closely at his face. “Ready?” I’m not sure whether I’m asking Harry or myself.

“Yeah.” His pupils are so widely dilated his eyes look black.

I nudge the head of my prick against his loosened hole, and bite my bottom lip hard to suppress a groan as his body begins to yield to me. The sight of his rim stretching around my cock is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, but as much as I want to watch, I have to force myself to look away before I bring the whole event to a premature end.

I focus on Harry’s face, instead. He’s wearing the determined expression I love so much; the slight frown, the narrowed eyes, the almost insolent angle of his chin. His eyes water as my prick stretches him, filling him up, inch by precious inch, until I’m finally all the way inside him, buried in the tight heat of his arse.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” I echo. I feel almost giddy; this is surreal.

We’re both shaking. He’s incredibly warm and slick, and I can feel every movement of his muscles as his body adjusts to the intrusion. I know, with complete certainty, that I don't stand a chance of lasting more than a few minutes.

“Okay,” he murmurs, after what feels like an eternity. “You can move. Take it steady at first, yeah?”

I pull back just an inch, then sink back into him, coaxing a soft, breathy sigh from his lips. The sound of it almost undoes me then and there.

We fall into a slow, steady rhythm, gradually increasing the depth of my thrusts until Harry’s pushing back against me to meet each one. I don’t know which part feels better; the tight heat as I push into him, or the way his muscles clench around me, fighting to keep me inside him, when I pull back.

Pleasure washes over us in waves, relentless and achingly sweet. I couldn’t have imagined the sex would be like this. I thought it would be frantic, animalistic, even … I didn’t expect we’d be chest to chest, with his legs wrapped around my waist, his fingers tangled in my hair and his breath on my skin. The intimacy is almost overwhelming.

His cock is pressed between our stomachs, thick and hard and slick with pre-come. I slip my hand between us and grip him firmly, watching every minute detail of his reaction as I run my thumb over his slit. He presses his lips together, but they fall apart almost immediately and a gasp escapes. His eyelids flutter.

“ _Uhhhh_ … so good, Draco … so fucking good.”

His face contorts; he looks almost as if he’s in pain, but I know better. My self-control falters and I thrust into him much harder than I intended.

His breath leaves him in a rush and his eyes actually roll back as I bottom out. “Draco … _fuck_ ,” he groans, and then his hands are suddenly gripping my upper arms, pushing me away. “Wait … wait.”

It takes every last shred of willpower to stop. My toes curl with the effort of it. If he really wants to end it here, I think I might die from frustration.

He doesn't ask me to pull out, though. He shifts beneath me and hooks one leg over my shoulders, opening up his hips to me. “Okay,” he pants. “Fuck me.”

Any hope of taking this slowly evaporates, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated need. I take hold of his hips and start to fuck him properly, with hard, fast, _deep_ strokes which have me grunting his name every time I sink into him, burying myself to the hilt in the silken heat of his arse.

It feels far too good. My balls are tight and almost painfully heavy; my orgasm is building rapidly. The least I can do is bring him over the edge with me. I adjust my angle, trying to hit the spot that had him crying out and bucking against my fingers.

It takes a few thrusts to get it right, but I’m left in no doubt when I do. His moans, his movements, they all stop abruptly as he lies back and _takes_ it. His eyes are tightly shut, his mouth hanging open … he looks beyond words.

When he finally finds his voice, it’s almost unrecognisable; low and hoarse, almost incoherent. “I’m— _ohhhh fuck_ —coming, I’m—”

His broken cries dissolve into a deep, guttural groan and he digs his fingernails into my shoulders so hard it hurts. His cock pulses between us, spilling his release against our stomachs as his tight channel contracts rhythmically around my prick, sending white-hot bursts of pleasure coursing through my entire body.

It’s all too much. It takes just three rough, frantic thrusts before the pleasure peaks and I’m overcome by my own climax. I bury my face in the hollow of his neck, but it’s not enough to muffle the ragged sob of pleasure which escapes my lungs as I fall apart, filling him with my come.

I collapse bonelessly on top of him to ride out the aftershocks, and we lie there in sated silence until our breathing returns to normal. Harry rubs slow circular patterns on my back with his fingertips, doing nothing to help the heavy drowsiness which set in the moment my orgasm began to ebb.

“I think you might have said the word ‘fuck’ more times during the last half hour than you have in the entire time I’ve known you,” I murmur.

“Sorry,” he laughs. He doesn’t sound sorry at all; in fact, he seems rather pleased.

“You should be. I’m appalled.”

“Are you going to punish me?” he asks, sounding suspiciously hopeful.

“Tempting, but I think it would probably kill me right now. I’m going to clean myself up and go to sleep.”

I reluctantly shift from my comfortable position on top of him, wincing as my over-sensitive prick slips from his body, and stumble to the bathroom on shaky legs.

By the time I return, Harry’s fast asleep in the center of the bed. He’s snoring gently, completely unconcerned by the sticky residue smeared across his stomach. I should have known he’d snore.

I nudge him over to one side and climb in beside him.

Christmas is still technically an hour or so away, but I suspect I’ve already received my favourite gift.

~*~*~*~

I awake the following morning to the faint sound of Harry’s terrible singing. He’s so bad it takes me a while to recognise the song – the tune is all over the place, and he doesn’t seem to know the majority of the words – but from the jolly tempo, I eventually place it as ‘ _Deck the Halls_ ’.

I pull on my boxers and one of Harry’s t-shirts from the wardrobe, and wander out to join him, following the sound of his voice.

I find him in the kitchen with his back turned to me, dancing around in his pyjamas as he whisks some kind of batter in a big bowl. I stand in the doorway and watch him for a few moments, feeling slightly disgusted with myself for finding it all so endearing.

“— _fa-la-la-la-la, la-la, la-la, ‘tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la_ —oh, you’re up!” He almost jumps out of his skin when he catches sight of me, and a faint blush colours his cheeks.

I smirk. “Don’t mind me. I was very much enjoying the concert. Very festive.”

He puts down the bowl to give me a playful shove, which is quickly followed by a kiss. I can certainly think of worse ways to start the day.

The batter turns out to be for waffles, which are absolutely delicious. I’d never admit it to him, but I think he might be a better cook than me.

After breakfast, we enjoy a long, leisurely shower together before nipping downstairs so he can make me a flat white using the café’s equipment. I’m still full from the waffles, but I take the opportunity to pinch a biscotti from the cakes counter. I opt for the ‘festive cranberry’ flavour, much to Harry’s surprise.

When we make it back upstairs, I decide it’s time to give him my gift.

I reach into my bag, retrieve the neatly-wrapped box and restore it to full size. It’s long and narrow – almost the full length of my armspan – and pleasingly heavy. I pass it awkwardly to Harry, suddenly nervous. I have no doubt at all that he’ll love what’s inside, but even I have to admit that it’s ludicrously excessive. I was sorely tempted to keep it for myself.

He takes the present from me and gently shakes it, weighing it in his hands, then bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I frown.

He puts the box carefully on the floor and rushes off into his bedroom. He returns a moment later holding an identical package. “This is my present for you,” he grins.

My pulse quickens. He can’t have got me the same thing. It’s far too extravagant; surely he wouldn’t have spent so much on me. I need to know what it is. “Shall we open them on three?” I ask.

“Yeah. One … two … THREE!”

We tear at the paper like a pair of overexcited children, breaking into the boxes inside. Less than a minute later, we’re gaping in silent awe, each holding a brand new Supernova Nebula.

They’re the most remarkable brooms I’ve ever laid eyes on; jet-black other than the three tiny white stars on the tip of the handle, and polished to such a high shine I can practically see my reflection in the wood. The tail is bracketed by three thick silver bands, and every twig is clipped to perfection.

I look over at Harry; he’s gazing at his broom almost lovingly. My chest feels tight with emotion to see him looking so pleased. I don’t recall ever getting so much enjoyment out of giving a gift.

I suddenly realise his broom looks a little smaller than mine. I hold mine up against his to check, and realise he’s bought me the version with the longer handle. “You looked a little tall for your Nimbus,” he shrugs. I can’t believe he noticed.

I take both brooms and lay them gently on the sofa, then pull him into a fierce hug. “Thank you.”

He chuckles softly. “No, thank _you_.” He pauses to kiss my neck. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“No, what?”

When he pulls back to look at me, I notice the mischievous glint in his eyes. “We’ll get to see once and for all who’s the better flier. If we’re using the same spec broom, you have nothing but yourself to blame when I beat you!”

I roll my eyes. “Dream on, Potter.”

The ensuing argument over who’s the best flier goes on for at least an hour, until we’re distracted by an insistent tapping at the window.

It’s a handsome tawny owl, carrying a small package. The owl seems most disappointed to discover that Harry doesn’t have any treats to give it; it hoots furiously and pecks at his fingers as he struggles to push it back outside.

When he’s finally managed to get rid of it, he brings the delivery over to me. “It’s addressed to both of us,” he says. “It looks like Pansy’s handwriting.”

This can't be good. I grab the parcel from him and feel it; it’s flexible, a book of some kind. We tear off the paper together, and I blink in horror as Harry bursts out laughing.

“I’ll kill her,” I mutter weakly, staring down at the ‘ _2011 Official His & His Quidditch Studs Calendar_’.

Harry begins to leaf through it, humming appreciatively. “Draco, look! She’s got every page autographed! Oh wow, I can see why you support the Magpies, _four_ of their players have made the cut.” He gives a low whistle. “Look at Mr September!”

I grab the calendar from him and throw it across the room, but not before I catch a glimpse of Mr September, gloriously naked but for a strategically-placed Quaffle. “Shut up, or I’ll kill you too.”

The last-minute nature of our Christmas plans means we don’t have a turkey. After much deliberation, we eventually order Chinese food. It’s a bit unconventional, but then again, so are we. As we tuck into our bowls of chicken chow mein, I allow myself to wonder if this might become a festive tradition.

When we’re so full we can barely breathe, we collapse onto the sofa and Harry turns on his television. I try to concentrate on the program, but the way the people’s faces stare out through the screen unsettles me. When I tell Harry this, he looks at me as if I’ve grown an extra head.

“Hang on,” he frowns. “Are you trying to tell me that my telly bothers you, but _magical portraits_ don’t?”

Honestly. It’s not that hard to grasp. “Yes, exactly.”

He shakes his head. “You do know they can't see us through the screen, right? It’s just a recorded image.”

Such a fool; he’s always been too trusting. “How can you be sure?” I ask.

He runs his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “I just am, Draco. It’s a Muggle thing.”

I’m unconvinced. We eventually reach a compromise whereby Harry leaves the television on, while I get out a book and move over to the armchair in the corner, out of the screen’s view. We’ll see who’s laughing when the screen-people climb out and attack him.

Late in the evening, while Harry’s in the kitchen sorting out our drinks, a final parcel appears beneath the tree. I pick it up. It’s not gift-wrapped, just stuffed into a large brown envelope, and I realise with a jolt that it has my name on it.

I tear it open and take out a booklet of official-looking papers. There’s a note stuck to the top, which I read first:

_Draco,_

_Have a wonderful Christmas with Harry. Perhaps this will help your new start…_

_Love,_

_Astoria_

I put the note to one side and take a look at the document; it’s a deed of assignment for the lease over the shop. A lump forms in my throat. I flick through to the back page, and find that it has two signatures on it already – Astoria’s and the landlord's – leaving just a blank space for my own.

As I read it, Harry wanders back into the room. He comes to stand beside me and puts his arm around my waist. “What’s that?”

I hold up the front page for him to see, temporarily unable to speak.

He squints at it. “ _Number 13, Polemic Alley_ … isn’t that your shop?”

I nod. “The lease … it’s always been in her name. Nobody would let me rent a property after the War … she’s transferred it to me. She … she must have persuaded the landlord.”

“What a wife,” Harry murmurs. Then, after a pause, “She really loves giving you bundles of documents as gifts, doesn't she?”

A sharp bubble of laughter rises up in my throat. “She’s a Ravenclaw. It’s what they do.”

“How did she know to send it here?”

I raise an eyebrow at his silly question. “Astoria’s practically omnipotent. She probably asked Pansy … or perhaps Hermione.”

He nods. “Ah, that would explain it. Hermione’s got access to my wards. She’s always sending things through.”

I’m barely listening, though. I wander over to the sofa in a daze, no longer trusting my legs to hold me up.

Harry goes back to fetch the drinks before joining me. He sinks onto the cushion beside me and manoeuvres me into a lying down position, with my head in his lap. I let out a quiet sigh of pleasure as his fingers begin to trace light circles over my sensitive scalp.

It’s incredibly cosy in Harry’s little living room, with the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, and it’s no time at all before I begin to doze. My last thought before I succumb to sleep is that I have no idea what I did to deserve such wonderful people in my life.

~*~*~*~

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is always a strange time; a no man’s land of sorts, where it’s all too easy to lose track of time. This year is no exception, but in an entirely different way.

This year there have been no awkward family dinners; no discussions of babies or bloodlines. The days have sailed by in a lazy haze of pleasure and good conversation. It’s been fucking fantastic.

Harry and I have left the flat only once, to take our new Nebulas for a test flight. As it turns out, racing brooms have come on leaps and bounds over the last decade: they’re so powerful it’s impossible to breathe when flying at top speed, and the steering is so sharp I almost gave myself whiplash with an ill-timed Wronski Feint. By the time we finished, our legs were so weak we could barely stand. Harry was worse than me; he all but crawled up the stairs to his flat. Fortunately, we found a way to pass the afternoon whilst remaining entirely horizontal.

In fact, we’ve spent rather a lot of time in Harry’s bed, making up for lost time. That’s not to say we’ve spent the _entire_ time naked … but certainly a reasonably high proportion of it.

All in all, I have no hesitation in saying that it’s been the best week of my life.

I’ve so completely given myself over to this slothful, hedonistic unreality that when Friday morning comes around, I’m thrown when Harry asks me what I’m planning to wear later.

“Later?” I ask.

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Yeah. To Pansy’s New Year’s party?”

“Oh. Of course.” I’d forgotten all about it.

I manage to convince him that smart Muggle clothing is the best option. There’s no need for traditional dress – it’s more of a small gathering than a party, however much Pansy’s delusions of grandeur lead her to call it otherwise – but I’m certain she’d send Harry home if he dared to turn up wearing jeans.

I take a trip home that afternoon to pick up my things. My stomach clenches uncomfortably as I move through the house; mementoes of my marriage jump out from every corner. It’s as if Harry and I have spent the last week in a surreal Utopia. I’m not particularly looking forward to returning to reality; I have no idea what it will even look like.

Every second away from Harry feels wasted, so I dash upstairs and open the wardrobe. After a moment’s consideration, I select my most expensive pair of trousers and a pair them with a shirt in cobalt blue. Astoria always told me that blue was my colour.

I dress quickly and rush back to Harry’s flat. He answers the front door looking every bit as debonair as he did for the _Ascendio_ launch. Even his hair is behaving itself more than usual.

He gestures at his outfit. “What do you think?”

I have no words. He looks like a walking wet dream. He’s wearing the green shirt I bought him for his birthday, tucked into a pair of fitted charcoal trousers. A glimmer of gold flashes at his wrists: cufflinks in the shape of – what else? – tiny Snitches. Something is missing, though.

“Where are your glasses?” I choke.

He blinks. “You seem to like how I look without them, so I thought I’d dig out my contact lenses.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Harry, you can’t go out like that. You look as though you’ve been thoroughly shagged.”

“Hopefully I will be, later,” he winks.

I narrow my eyes. “You will be right now, if you’re not careful.”

“Oh, really?” He rakes his eyes up and down my body, letting a slow, sexy smile play on his lips.

My fragile self-control snaps within seconds. “Right. Bedroom. Now.”

~*~*~*~

We miraculously make it to Pansy and Theo’s just half an hour late, and looking only minimally debauched. The only real casualty is Harry’s hair, which is back to looking as wild as I’ve ever seen it.

I’m running my fingers through it, trying to make it lie flat when Pansy answers the door with a flourish, looking absolutely enormous in a red crushed-velvet dress.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovebirds,” she smirks, taking in the sight of me fussing over him. “I’m amazed you made it, to be honest. I thought you’d still be making up for lost time.” She winks, looking far too pleased with herself.

“We’re not averse to leaving if you insist upon acting like a smug cow,” I huff as we step into the hallway, squeezing past her gigantic bump with some difficulty.

Harry bends to plant a kiss on her cheek. “You’re mental, inviting everyone over when you’re practically about to give birth. What were you thinking?”

Pansy leans back and laughs, digging the knuckles of her left hand into the small of her back. “I’m living vicariously through the rest of you. If I get to watch you lot making drunken fools of yourselves, I might forget for a moment that I’ve become a human beachball with ankles the width of tree trunks.”

I lean in to give her a kiss of my own. “Don’t be silly, Pans. They’re saplings, at best.”

She arches a brow, then turns to Harry. “I really don’t know what you see in him.”

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” Harry grins, looking me up and down so salaciously that I feel a blush rising up my neck.

Pansy bursts out laughing again and ushers us through to the living room, where Blaise and Theo are in the middle of a heated argument over whether Muggle sports count as ‘real’ sports. It’s a regular point of contention between them: Blaise is something of a purist – as far as he’s concerned, if there’s no flying, it’s not a sport – whereas Theo’s attitude is more relaxed. Thankfully they calm down in the time it takes Harry and I to order our drinks from a frantic House-elf.

“So, are you two _properly_ together now?” Blaise asks as he drains his martini and pops the olive into his mouth.

Harry looks at me expectantly.

“Yes,” I confirm.

“Thank fuck for that,” Blaise grins. “We were starting to think it was never going to happen.”

“It was pretty painful to watch,” Theo adds. “Very … intense.”

This isn’t a conversation I want to have, so I raise an eyebrow and put on my best drawl. “Mmm, well, now it’s happened, and guess what? It’s still none of your business.”

Thankfully, my relationship with Harry is upstaged twenty minutes later.

To our utter shock, Millie, who has never so much as mentioned her love life in all the years we’ve known her, turns up hand in hand with Padma Patil. In her classic understated style, she drops a bottle of Shiraz into Theo’s outstretched hand and greets us with a nonchalant nod.

“Evening everyone. You all know Padma.”

Padma smiles politely as we all gape, presumably finding us incredibly rude.

The moment is just on the cusp of becoming awkward when Blaise saves the day. He gives a huge, exasperated sigh and puts his head in his hands. “For fuck’s sake, how have _I_ ended up as the only person here without a date? I mean, _look at me!_ I’m the best looking person in this room!”

Perhaps it’s because he’s safely shattered the tension, or perhaps it has something to do with the alcohol thrumming in our bloodstreams, but we all fall about laughing as if it’s the funniest thing we’ve ever heard. Our laughter tips into hysterics when Millie, ever the problem solver, offers to introduce him to some of the Goblins she works with: apparently one of them is quite tall and “looks almost human in certain lights, if you can get past the clammy hands”.

When we finally calm down, the mood eases into the raucous but relaxed atmosphere we’re all used to. Drinks and conversation flow, and it isn’t long before we’re all feeling very merry indeed.

Poor Padma initially looks a little unnerved to be spending New Year’s Eve with half of Slytherin House, but she soon perks up after a chat with Harry. I’d like to think he’s given her a guide to surviving the snake pit; he’s been negotiating it like an expert from day one, after all.

“They’ve been seeing each other for two years,” he reveals, when he comes back over to join me. “Padma was getting sick of being treated like Millie’s dirty little secret, so she gave her an ultimatum: go public by the end of the year, or break up. Millie agreed to let the cat out of the bag, on the condition that the big reveal be as subtle as possible.”

 _Two years_. I’m astounded. I can’t imagine how miserable I’d feel if Harry tried to keep his relationship with me under wraps. I suddenly feel a new appreciation for his excessive displays of affection.

Still, I’m jealous of the understated way in which they came out. “Why couldn’t we have done that?” I ask.

Harry frowns at me, confused. “Done what?”

“Kept it subtle! Think how much easier it would have been to come out quietly, to close friends, at a little soiree like this! But oh no, Harry Potter had to make a big song and dance about it. Such a _celebrity_ ,” I tease.

He throws up his hands in protest. “Hey, that’s not fair! You knew I wanted to do it like that for the benefit of _Ascendio_! And besides, I take no responsibility for the dancing – that was _all_ your idea.”

I laugh; I can’t deny that he has a point.

Millie’s revelation may be the biggest surprise of the evening, but it isn’t the only one; just after eleven o’clock, a familiar head of bushy brown hair appears at the living room door.

Harry and I push past Blaise and Theo to say hello.

“Hermione! What are you doing here?” Harry asks, practically glowing with happiness.

“Pansy invited us, so we thought we’d stop by,” she explains.

“Mostly for the food,” Weasley adds, appearing behind her, holding a plate piled high with canapés. “Parkinson’s House-elves are _unbelievable_. They made all of these to order!”

“They really are very good,” I smirk.

“Here, Hermione,” he says, attempting to force-feed her a salmon wrap, “Try this and tell me you still don’t want a House-elf.”

Hermione dodges out of his way, scowling. “No, thank you, and I certainly do _not_ want a House-elf, _Ronald_.”

Sensing an argument brewing, I leave Harry to calm them down and slip away to chat to Pansy about her impending motherhood. It’s strange; far from the despair I felt when she first announced her pregnancy, I feel strangely excited for her. Mostly, though, I’m relieved that it’s happening to her rather than me. She’s not impressed when I tell her that: the comment earns me a gentle shove.

We all gather in middle of the living room in the last few minutes before midnight.

The flustered House-elf from earlier comes rushing in, staggering under the weight of a tray full of champagne flutes. Pansy’s sparkling cranberry juice stands out, jewel-red in a sea of pale yellow.

When the clock begins to chime, Pansy and Blaise launch into a terrible, tuneless rendition of ' _Auld Lang Syne_ ', but it blurs into background noise as Harry leans in and captures my lips in the type of kiss which really shouldn’t be permitted anywhere outside of his bedroom.

I’ve always despised overly amorous displays of affection, but I’m powerless to resist the smooth swipe of his tongue against my own. I find myself kissing him back just as fervently, tugging at the collar of his shirt and relishing the feeling as he slowly drags his fingertips through my hair.

When the kiss finally comes to an end, he stays close enough that our noses are touching. “Happy new year, Draco,” he whispers.

An ear-splitting wolf-whistle slices through the air, shattering the tender moment. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from Harry’s face.

Blaise is the culprit, of course, though it looks as if we already had quite the audience before he felt the need to interrupt. He and Pansy immediately begin to whoop and applaud, and to my horror, the others join in. Hermione looks fit to burst into tears of joy, while Ron – I may as well get used to using his first name – is less comfortable, staring intently at the breaded quail’s egg in his hand. Theo and Padma clap politely along, and even no-nonsense Millie cracks a smile.

I glare at each of them in turn, but Harry ruins the effect by laughing sheepishly and pressing another kiss to my cheek.

Pansy eventually takes pity on me and announces that it’s time for a toast. We all scrabble around for a glass of champagne, and when everyone has one, Pansy holds up her flute of cranberry juice and clears her throat officiously.

“To love, life and new beginnings! May 2011 be the best year yet!”

I raise my glass, unable to contain my grin. Standing here, surrounded by my horrible friends, and with one arm wrapped snugly around Harry’s waist, I think it really might be.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted anonymously as part of hd_erised 2016. 
> 
> The Livejournal post can be found [here](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/75442.html).


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